Excessive Force 2 of 12 in a series
by mccoylover
Summary: Story picks up after the attempt on DA Jack McCoy's life in Prosecutorial Misconduct. A bit of Stone, Olivet, Green Shambala and Ed, Fontana, Rubirosa, and a teeny tiny bit of GaffneyTBJ along the way. Please RR. Anything L and O is Dick's. OC's are mine.
1. Breakfast with the McCoys: Jack & Becky

He stared blindly into the steaming brown liquid, oblivious to his surroundings.

The reality of what had happened had began to hit him when Brooke Prescott's Browning automatic hit the floor. He could feel Prescott begin to shudder as he took her in his arms. His own legs felt like over done pasta. A voice in the far reaches of McCoy's consciousness commanded him not to give in. Not to pass out. Although logic told him it was too late for Samantha Weaver, he had seen enough homicides that his mind was on automatic plot.

_Jack ...you know the drill…you have to call it in… call an ambulance….the police…call…_Despite the increasing urgency of his inner voice, McCoy had remained paralyzed until he felt his own legs began to buckle. By the time he had lowered them both to the floor the shudders had become uncontrollable shaking. Instinctively they silently clung to each other, surrounded by broken glass and blood until McCoy heard the sirens getting closer….

"Dad?"

Jack McCoy turned his attention away from the now undrinkable coffee and focused on the anxious face across from him.

"Yeah, honey?"

"I should stay. My boss's son is a cop. He understands. He said to take as long-"

"Becky, I'm fine," McCoy said firmly. "You need to get back to Maine. Your job, your life."

"I'm not you, Dad" she said unthinkingly, gearing up for the typical career vs. family argument that had been at the root of their estrangement. "I'm not going to kill myself over a job, when my fa-",

Her hand flew up to her mouth as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

"Dad, I'm sorry. I, I didn't.. I wasn't thinking..."

McCoy stood up from the kitchen table to embrace his daughter as she started to sob. Nearly two weeks had passed since Samantha Weaver had held him at gunpoint. The events immediately after the shooting; the statements, the trip to the ER - where his daughter had frantically tracked him down after hearing about the shooting while visiting her Mother - had taken on a dreamlike feel.

Although McCoy and his daughter had been making steady progress in mending their tattered relationship, he had been touched and mildly surprised when Rebecca had insisted on taking him back to his Manhattan apartment. Dumbfounded, when she offered to stay with him. During the Barnes affair, their hadn't even been a phone call from his only child. She was making a leap of faith and he had to be there to catch her.

After almost two weeks of being fussed over, shadowed at work, the store, not to mention being guilted into an obligatory visit to Liz Olivett, the time had come to put his foot down. To send his daughter away from the daily reminders of yet another attempt on her father's life.

The op/ed column rehash, the local television new shows continuing commentaries on violence against public officials, and the most damaging site of all; watching McCoy's carefully crafted facade of normalcy be ripped away in the helplessness of sleep. He'd toss and turn violently. Sometimes wake up in a cold sweat and cry out. He'd finally open his eyes to find himself in his daughter's arms, a look of helpless panic on her tear stained face.

"Hush, hush. Come on now, Becky," he said gently wiping the tears from his child's face. "I'm going to be tied up at the office all day to day. All you'd do is sit and read magazine's again. After I meet with the Executive Board, I'm with the Mayor and the OCRB all afternoon."

"The Executive Board? Are you announcing your replacement today?"

McCoy nodded as he dumped his coffee down the drain and began clearing the breakfast dishes.

"Figured it was time to make Tracey Kibre's promotion official."

"How's Connie taking it?"

"She's a little disappointed," he said bluntly. "But Connie's a realist. She knows she needs more experience in Major Felonies before I even think about an EADA position for her. Tracey Kibre has almost twenty years in the DA's office. Her record speaks for itself. Actually, I think Connie was pleasantly surprised that I'd chosen a woman to be my Senior EADA."

Rebecca nodded as she removed the breakfast dishes from the sink and began loading the dishwasher.

"So what about after work," she pressed. "It's Friday. I could make you dinner and Saturday we could-"

"Saturday I have to go out to Ocean Beach. I promised your Mother I'd see how the repair to the front window is coming and start looking into getting a painter out there. We both have things we need to do, sweetheart," he said stubbornly. "It's time for you to go home."

"Dad are you sure you're ready," she asked somberly. "The house. You haven't been back there since…why can't Mom do it?"

McCoy smiled at his daughter's selective memory.

"Your Mother is leaving for that conference in DC today, remember? Besides," he said gently. " I owe her. She's been very generous about letting me keep you all to myself during this visit."

"Hum hum," she said with a 'I- caught- you- with -your- hand - in - the- cookie-jar' tone of voice. "You wouldn't using the repairs as an excuse to go see a certain auburn haired ADA?"

McCoy tossed the dish rag towards his daughter's face. .

"Heavens to Betsy, why didn't I think of that," he asked, his eyes wide, as he moved from the sink to the desk in the living room

Rebecca McCoy sighed, as she followed him. As much as she usually disapproved of her father's dalliances she had to admit, this one had possibilities. Although the two women had only met briefly, Rebecca liked Brooke Prescott. Not only because she was the reason Rebecca was making plans for the day with her father, instead of planning his funeral.

In the chaos of the Emergency Room it was apparent to Rebecca that Prescott was in bad shape - the shaky voice and hands, her face drawn and colorless - yet Prescott was gracious enough to see Rebecca's panic and try to reassure her while McCoy was being checked out.

"Just go see her, Dad," she said seriously. "Skip the house."

"I'm fine," he said with forced nonchalance. "Listen. It's almost nine now. If you're going to catch the train back to Portland, you better get moving. If you hurry, I can drop you off at the station on my way to the office."

Rebecca McCoy gave her father a doubtful look. She knew he'd been putting up a good front. Both at work and at home. The only time there was any indication McCoy was anything but his usual aggressive, driven self was at late at night. When he was alone.

As much as she hated leaving him alone, she knew he father. If she pressed him nothing would change. He'd still send her on her way. The only difference would be that instead of saying good bye with a hug and kiss, they would part ways with the angry words and bruised feelings that had been the hallmark of their relationship for far too long.

Reluctantly the young woman looked up at her father.

"Fine, I'll go. But not empty handed. I want something in return for my cooperation," she said teasingly. "I want you to check in -no email crap. Phone calls. Every morning. When you get up. No matter _where _you wake up. Every night. Before you go to sleep - no excuses about it being too late. You start carrying your cell phone. With the battery charged and in the _on_ position. So I can check on you, if _I _get scared. You check and _return_ you voice mail. One other thing - a promise - you'll come up next weekend."

McCoy smiled with parental pride.

"You drive a hard bargain McCoy," he said with mock reluctance.

"Consider it a gift," she said with a grin as she tapped her watch. "Well, do we have a deal or not counselor? Make up your mind - this offer is only good for the next ten seconds. Otherwise, not only do I unpack my bags, I move in for good."


	2. Back to the Scene of the Crime

_Well, at least the bike is still here,_ he thought as the cab pulled away from the front of the Cape Cod style residence.

The night of the shooting McCoy had forgotten his BMW was sitting on the drive way of the Ocean Beach property, until he was back in Manhattan. He grinned with relief, as he finished inspecting his most prized possession. Aside from being in urgent need of a through cleaning, the motorcycle appeared to be intact.

He turned his attention to the front of the house, inspecting the work that had been done on the front window. As Samantha Weaver's body had fallen to the ground, the bullets had kept coming. One of them shattering the window. The repair work looked good. No trace of damage from the outside.

Satified, McCoy glanced up at the security camera, before opening the front door. The small red activation light, a welcoming beckon. As he turned to close the door he reached back as an after thought, bringing with him the stack from the mail box.

After deactivating the alarm system McCoy sat at the counter that separated the small living room from the kitchen. As the message machine on the counter played, he went through the small pile. Most of what he found were local advertisements. There were only two items of significance. The first being a letter from the sheriff's department, informing him their investigation had been concluded . CSU was finished with his dwelling, so repair work could begin. The second item,a certified check for one hundred and twenty five dollars, with a letter documenting the items taken during the shooting investigation.

"…_open the damn door, Jack. I have your fax and the money I owe you.."_

McCoy thoughtfully reviewed the list of items, his mind flashing back to Brooke Prescott in a purple bikini, challenging him to a bet…

"_You don't intimidate me McCoy, I know how you Irishmen operate…A lot of blarney. All talk, but no action."_

He had been sorely tempted to show her how wrong she was then and there. To kiss that self assured smirk off her face.

God, how he had wanted her...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jake Cohen looked up from behind his supervisors desk, a wide grin forming on his long face upon seeing McCoy standing in the doorway.

"Jack, how the hell are you?"

McCoy shrugged, closing the door behind him.

"Glad to be alive," he said half heartedly. "How about yourself?"

"I've been better," he admitted, indicating the stack of files beside him. "We're still processing the cases from the festival riot. It would go a lot faster if Brooke were around."

"When do you expect her back?"

Cohen frowned uncomfortably.

"You two haven't talked?"

"Phone tag and emails," McCoy said pulled up a chair. "I've been swamped - I never realized how many meetings Arthur attended. This is the first time I've been able to get out of Manhattan since the shooting. After work, between my daughter and Brooke's brother, finding a moment we could both speak freely has been difficult. The few times we've connected, it's been brief. Don't tell me just because it's Saturday she's playing hooky?"

McCoy waited for an explanation that didn't come.

"Jake, is she all right?"

Cohen hesitated.

"She's on administrative leave, Jack."

McCoy's puzzled expression changed to an expression of acceptance, as he thought about Cohen's revelation.

"She sounded so relaxed on the phone. I assumed she was…she didn't say she'd asked for time off. But, it makes sense. Shootings-"

"Jack, this wasn't her choice," Cohen said reluctantly. "The police were ready to sign off on the shooting as self defense, based on your statement and the evidence from the scene. Then our office got a call from Montana. Weaver's father has filed a wrongful death suit and is flying in Monday. He says there's no way his daughter could shoot anybody. That he taught her how to shoot himself. She could hit a target dead on, but never even killed a rabbit."

"How nice for the rabbits," McCoy sarcastically shot back. "It doesn't matter whether she could or couldn't have fired - she held me at gunpoint. She made her intent clear. When Brooke told her to drop the gun she pointed it at me instead-"

"Jack, you don't have to convince me-"

"Where's Michael," McCoy said starting for the door.

"The DA's in Albany. The senior EADA is running the show until he gets back."

"Fine - get him in here."

"Listen to me Jack. Clint Renard and Brooke are already like oil and water. Lots of bad blood. If the DA for New York county tries to tell him how to do his job, you'll make it worse. Renard will dig his heels in tell you to go to hell and assume Brooke put you up to confronting him."

McCoy shook his head in frustration.

"How's Brooke handling this?"

"Not well," the younger man said not quite meeting McCoy inquiring gaze.

"There's more. What is it?"

"Look Jack, if she knew I'd told you even this much-"

"Not like you to back down, Jake. Especially when it comes to Brooke. Why isn't she talking to me? What am I missing?"

"She knows all about the hit list you were on a while back. The shooting at the courthouse…she thinks you've been through enough…she doesn't want to burden you-"

"'Burden me'," McCoy said incredulously." She saved my life, Jake! If she hadn't shown up… If you won't tell me what's going on with her, I'll get it out of Brooke myself. Just give me her home address."

Cohen shifted uncomfortably.

"I can't do that, Jack."

"Can't or won't," McCoy demanded.

Cohen stood up, leaning across the desk meeting McCoy's intimidating stare with one of his own.

"She won't talk to her brother. If she cuts me out as well, she'll isolate entirely. Like she did when Sam died. I won't risk her doing that now."

McCoy threw his hands in the air and began pacing.

"Fine," he said at last. "I'll pull the address from public records. Where can I access the database? "

Cohen stood, motioning for McCoy to take his chai. The tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.

When he turned the motorcycle off, McCoy could hear the stereo playing from inside the tri- level Victorian. Even before he verified the house numbers, he sensed the grey trimmed yellow house was Prescott's. As he walked up the porch steps the sound intensified, making ringing the doorbell pointless.

He looked around the porch, deciding to reach for the door knob just as the door flew open. The two men stared at each other in surprise, literally in each other's face.

"McCoy?"

"Mr. Malinowski," McCoy said, suddenly feeling like he was seventeen and standing on Shelia Kowalski's front steps for the first time. "I heard about Brooke. Would it be possible for me to speak with her?"

Andrew Malinowski stared at McCoy in disbelief.

"'Possible'? I was about to call you."

The two men sat on the porch swing. Prescott's brother recounted his sister's refusal days earlier, to continue staying with her brother and niece any longer. In response, Malinowski had been sending his daughter over to Prescott's interminetly. It hadn't taken Prescott long to figure out why and she wasn't having it. The ensuing battle had resulted in an exchange of harsh words and a demand from Prescott not to burden a thirteen year old with keeping her from 'drinking herself into oblivion' and to 'get the hell out and get on with his life'.

"She's drinking because of the shooting?"

"Mr. McCoy-"

"Jack."

"'Jack, she's back to where she was five years ago," Malinowski said miserably. "She's been obsessed since the father filed the lawsuit. Going over the shooting again and again. When she was taken off work, that finished her. When she lost Sam, she dove head first into a bottle. Came up long enough to do her job. This time, without the job…"

"How bad?"

"She makes sure she's sober if there's any chance Lindsay will be around. Otherwise….not until the bottles are empty."

McCoy nodded, remembering the blur of life immediately after Claire Kincaid's death. The only thing that got him out of bed was the job. The only reasons he sobered up back then were to prepare for trial or to present a case. He sympathized for Malinowski. McCoy knew what he was up against, first hand.


	3. Gothic Make Over

After reassuring Andrew Malinowski, McCoy went inside. Once he shut off the stereo, the sitting room became abruptly still. McCoy called out again, passing the spiral staircase as he walked towards the back of the house.

As he moved about the house, McCoy became aware of how well the house suited Brooke Prescott; stylish, yet comfortable; tasteful but inviting. The dining room was separated from the kitchen by an archway. Both the rooms shone with light. He stopped momentarily, noting the mass of newspapers, mail, and make up that dominated the round walnut dining table.

The island in the center of the kitchen caught his attention, as well. A small stack of what he recognized as interoffice envelopes, sat beside what he assumed was an empty carton of orange juice. His eyes rested on the salmon colored paper at the top of the stack.

_**State of New York Office of the Attorney General : State wide Job Announcements by County:**_

_**Dated: 6/30/07**_

_**Job# **22102_

_**Title:** Assistant District Attorney II (Senior)_

_**County**: New York_

_**Office: **#237 Manhattan_

_**Division:** Robbery/Homicide_

_**Pay Scale: **$55,000- 75,000 commiserate with number of years experience (see attorneys salary scale B)_

_**Minimum Requirements:** 5 years performing duties of or comparable to Assistant District Attorney I (Junior)….._

"Listen Michael, you know Clint. You know me," Brooke Prescott said, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "whose word are you going to take?…Sounds like the old boys network is alive and well….I thought I knew you better than that, too. Obviously…If I were a man and I this happened…"

McCoy quietly closed the french doors, listening to Prescott's end of the phone conversation. She stood with her back to him wearing the purple bikini, her skin glistening with sun tan oil. She put the empty tequila bottle down on the patio table, exchanging it for a glass of what appeared to be orange juice.

"…you leave me know choice. If you won't rein him in I'm calling Labor Relations or maybe it's time for me to update my resume….How you take that is up to you," she said closing the cell phone with a loud snap before dropping it on the table.

"I knocked."

Prescott turned to face him and McCoy didn't even try to suppress his laughter.

"That's a new look for you."

Prescott smiled as she came over and embraced him.

"Three words: Lindsay was here."

He held her away, eyeing the of braids and face fully made up in what the kids called "gothic style", embellished by the boldly colored eyeliner and lipstick.

"Your niece has real talent," he teased. "The circus could use someone with her skills."

"Or the working girls in Times Square," she said as he drew to him.

"The bikini's temptation enough but the hair, the make up, I don't know if I can control myself."

Prescott shrugged, putting her arms around his neck.

"Why try? Unless you're afraid of getting your shirt full of tanning gel?"

McCoy chuckled and he stepped back a devilish gleam in his eyes.

"There's an easy solution to that," he said as he began unbuttoning the denim shirt.

Prescott parted the shirt as she grinned up at him.

"Exceptional problem solving skills. I can see why Arthur Branch recommended you for DA."

McCoy grabbed her as he leaned in to kiss her. He could taste the combination of liquor and citrus as his tongue explored her mouth. Gothic or not, the chemistry between them was undeniable.

His fingers found the ties holding up the bikini top. His imagination ran wild. He fought the desire to untie what amount to glorified string, exposing the breasts whose nipples he could already feel hardening against his chest.

The series of delays that had thwarted every attempt McCoy had made at seduction would have been comical, had the reasons for postponement not involved death and murder. As much as he wanted to bring an end to the waiting, he knew he had to wait at least one more time.

Reluctantly, he stepped back Prescott's eyes silently questioned him.

"I thought this look did it for you, counselor?"

"Oh, it does. But you caught me off guard. Next time, I'll bring my Harry Potter costume - that way we both can live out our medieval fantasies."

Prescott grinned as she kissed him lightly on the cheek, taking his hand as she lead him into the kitchen.

"Sounds intriguing. Not that I'm complaining, but I don't remember giving you my address. What brings you to my doorstep Jack? In fact, how did you _find_ my doorstep?"

"You said it yourself - I have exceptional problem solving skills.I wanted to see you," he said leering suggestively. " I usually get what I want. Emails and phone calls only go so far."

"I thought Becky had you under house arrest," she said suspiciously as she pulled two glasses from the cabinet.

"I put her on a train and made a break for it."

"Really? You must be thirsty after such a daring escape," she joked as she opened the refrigerator. "I know you usually drink scotch, but I have something here you might enjoy, if you're up for trying something different. One of the benefits to marrying a Southern gentlemen is learning the secret to making the perfect mint julep - are you game?"

"I'm game for anything you are," he said playfully.

"Are you," she said eyeing him coyly. "This could prove to be an memorable afternoon."

_She is good_, he thought as he listened to her explain the skill involved in creating the perfect blend of sweetness and tartness. Her manner seemingly relaxed. Too relaxed. Even with the make up, McCoy could see the remnants of dark circles under the eyes. As she poured the liquid into the glasses he could see the effort she was making to steady her hands.

"Since I played bartender," she declared as she lifted her glass. "you get to make the toast, Jack. What should we drink to?"

"Is life too obvious," he asked unceremoniously. "Let's try honesty. You haven't said a word about the shooting. You want to try honesty, Brooke? Tell me what's going on."

Prescott shook her head slowly, setting the glass down. She looked down at the floor, gathering her thoughts much the way McCoy did when he felt a surge of emotion or surprise during a trial. Finally she looked at him.

"I assume this is going to be about as lengthy as a deposition. Before we get started, can I get you something to go with that drink? Sandwich, pasta-"

"Don't stall."

"Fine. Let's take this into the sitting room where you can interrogate comfortably," she said humorlessly as she took a handful of napkins from the island and walked back into the other room.


	4. Brooke and Jack

"I don't want to be redundant so you first," she said, using a napkin to begin removing the make up. "What do you already know?"

"I know you're a mess," McCoy said gently. "Which is a perfectly normal reaction to what you've been through. There'd be cause for concern if shooting a person didn't have an effect on you. It complicates the healing process when other factors are thrown into the equation."

Prescott ran a napkin over her lips, thoughtfully removing the last trace of her nieces handiwork.

"You sound more like a Park Avenue shrink, than Hang 'Em High McCoy. Becky wore you down and got you to see your friend Dr. Olivet, didn't she?"

"Liz Olivet is a smart woman," he said grudgingly. "What she said made sense, whether I wanted to hear it or not."

Prescott nodded.

"Shrinks always make sense, Jack. I got the full treatment five years ago. "Delayed reactions to trauma can vary. Follow your normal routine as much as possible, don't insolate yourself, keep a journal of your thoughts and feelings.' The only difference this time is _I _pulled the trigger."

"There's a hell of a difference, Brooke."

"Let's talk about those 'other factors' you mentioned," she said hedging. "You're here, not at my office - so I assume you know I'm on leave. I had just finished reading my boss the riot act when you arrived, safe bet you know the leave isn't voluntary. Since I threw my brother out about the time you arrived, chances are you know I'm through being handled. In Andy's mind that means I'm one step away from a twelve step program. Did I leave anything out?"

"You tell me," he replied shrewdly. "I've talked to enough police officers who have had to discharge their weapons in the line of duty. Sure the mandatory leave, the wrongful death suit, your brother's well intentioned hovering - none of it is helping. But, we both know there's more going on."

"Gee Jack, maybe you should hang a shingle out. Forget about keeping a shrink on retainer for your office. You could kill two or three birds with one stone: Diagnose, testify, _and _prosecute! Think of the money you'll save the taxpayers."

"You're blaming yourself for something you had no control over," he said ignoring her cynicism. "Brooke, Samantha Weaver's death is the fault of no one but Samantha Weaver."

Prescott consumed a generous portion of her mint julep before standing.

"I've got to get this gel off of me before it gets all over the furniture," she said as she started towards the staircase. "Help yourself to another drink. I'm taking a shower. I assume you're not staying at your place? Are you going back to Manhattan tonight?"

"I've got a painter coming out to give me an estimate Sunday morning."

"I just had this place painted last year. Remind me when I come back down to give you the number-"

"You know were not done here?"

"Come on Jack, _you_ have a job to go to Monday. Can't we just enjoy the time we have together, before you do go back to Manhattan? Maybe try to get through a meal without business coming before pleasure, when I come back down?"

"You can put me off as long as you like as far as sleeping with me, about anything else, and I'll gladly accept it,"he said bluntly." But not this. Where going to talk about this. There's no reason for you-"

"I _can't _discuss it with you Jack. There's a lawsuit involved remember? You're a witness. I won't put you in the position of perjuring yourself when they take your deposition or call you as a witness," she said as she started up the stairs.

"What makes you think I'd lie under oath,"he snapped back, following her up the stairs.

"It's no secret how close you ride the line when you think you're justified. I know about your visits to the discipline committee, among other things. Besides your credability is already questionable, at best. Her father's lawyer is going to tear apart both our lives-"

"For God's sake," he continued. "This is a civil matter. One that will be resolved once the police report is introduced. My testimony will be clear cut, if it even gets that far."

"Oh you can count on it getting further than that," she said adamantly as she opened the bedroom door. "We've both read the relevant reports. That night you told me yourself you thought of it while she held you captive."

McCoy stared at her watching as she grabbed a robe from the closet.

"What are you talking about?"

"Julia Veloso's statement. Jack you were in fear for your life. You told me one of the things you thought about while Weaver threatened you was what Veloso said during your interview with her. That Weaver didn't have the courage to pull the trigger. You kept her talking for an hour, Jack. She was hesitating, you _know_ she was.."

"I was grasping at straws," he gasped shaking her shoulders. "Come on Brooke, there's no way you could have known…know way anyone could know what she was going to do. She killed Diana Hawthorne, whose to say she wouldn't have killed me?"

"Her father," she said forcefully as she went through the archway into the bathroom. "and he's right. If I had _waited_. If I had ...damn you, Jack. I'm an officer of the court, at least for now. I won't suborn perjury. Things are bad enough already."

McCoy followed her turning her to face him, as she turned the shower facets on.

"I know how to handle myself in a deposition," he said fervently. "and on the stand. That's the least of your worries. You have to talk about this."

Prescott looked up at him her eyes pleading.

"Life is to damn short for this Jack," she said quietly as she untied the bikini top, letting it fall to the floor.

McCoy met her gaze and slowly shook his head as she slipped his shirt away from his body. He turned to leave as she reached for his hand.

"Brooke any other time I wouldn't hesitate, but -"

Prescott silenced him with a kiss. She pressed her body against him as her hands ran over his shoulders and down passed his back, reaching around for his belt buckle. McCoy pressed her against the bathroom wall. One hand caressed a breast, the other holding the hand on his buckle. Momentarily thwarted her hands returned to his shoulders, pressing him to her.

Both of them found themselves breathingly heavily, their pulses racing. McCoy shifted uncomfortably, his body rebelling against any concerns his mind tried to throw at it. One hand alternately stroking each breast, McCoy slipped the other down her back and into the bikini bottom. As he brought his head down to her breasts, he kneaded her backside as he pulled her to him.

As his mouth found a breast he heard her called his name. A hand moved to the back of his head, pressing his mouth against her nipple. He involuntariy thrust himself against her as her other hand made another attempt to unbuckle his belt.

"God Brooke, I _do _want you … but I can't," he said stepping back breathlessly holding her hands away from him.

"I have evidence to the contrary," she said indicating the prominent bulge between his legs.

McCoy scooped her into his arms.

"I think we both need to cool off," he said swiftly placing her under the shower head and retreating before Prescott had a chance to change his mind.


	5. Jack's Offer

McCoy flopped down into the leather office chair, closing his eyes as he fought to regain control over his senses. After a few minutes of concentrating on his breathing, his heart rate returned to normal. He opened his eyes, vaguely aware of an unframiliar scent in the room.

In his haste to momentarily put some distance between himself and Brooke Prescott, he had headed for the first door in sight. As he looked around the room, he began to suspect where he was.

Unlike his own book shelves, these were neatly organized. Codes for both state and federal criminal statutes, as well as the usual journals and legal reference books filled the shelves, none of which appeared to be older than 2002. All of the items standing up right, a thick coat of dust on their tops as if they hadn't been opened for long period of time. McCoy recognized several of the officials in the photos that hung on the walls Each photo including Brooke, Sam Prescott, or both of them. The large mahogany desk was surprisingly stark, as if it hadn't been used for work in some time. A tin of pipe tobacco half empty lay open, a pipe resting against it, a West Virginia Mountianeers mug holding the Georgia and U S flags, and a framed picture were the only items on the desk.

McCoy picked up the picture. Even with wedding cake being shoved in her mouth Brooke looked radiant. McCoy remembered the handful of times he'd spoken to Sam Prescott. His deceptively soft spoken manner could easily have lead an advisary to believe Prescott was a push over, holding little if any threat. However any one that had heard the man speak, knew underneath the quiet reserve was a tenacious fighter, a unstoppeable force in the courtroom. Although he hadn't known either of them well, the magical bond between the couple was unmistakeable.

McCoy looked up with a start, feeling a hand on his shoulder.

"Brooke, I didn't realize…I didn't mean to intrude," he said setting the picture down.

Prescott smiled down, at him.

"You could never intrude Jack. Besides,"she said as she tightened the belt on the terry cloth robe. "Sam's study isn't meant to be a shrine. When we brought the house, we converted the attic into my office. I haven't needed the space in here, so I've been slow to finish cleaning it out."

"I wasn't sure if you were still speaking to me."

"I'll admit I wasn't too happy with you at first," she said as she sat the edge of the desktop. "But, as I've told you more than once you're a good man, Jack. I should have known better than to throw myself at you. That reputation of yours has been grossly exaggerated. You're not a man to take advantage of a situation - or at least not a situation you _think _you'd be taking advantage of."

McCoy smiled slyly and reached out, pulling her to his lap.

"I know people who would disagree. Don't count on my virturous nature indefinitely. There's a limit to my powers to my restraint," he said as he kissed her cheek.

"You mean there's hope for us yet?"

"Anythings possible. What do you say we start with a ride and maybe some dinner?"

"A _ride_? Didn't I just offer you a _ride_…."Prescott stopped abruptly, gasping in surprise at McCoy's sudden attack on her body.

"If you're going to play wise ass be warned, I play dirty," he said as he held her with one hand, unmerificully ticking her torso with the other. "Now, are you ready to stop enticing me with sexual innuendo, or do you need more of this?"

"Alright! Stop! Enough! You win," she said breathlessly as he released her from his grasp. "Am I to assume based on your shameless actions that pay back in kind isn't an option?"

"You can try, but there's yet to be found a ticklish spot on me. That money from our bet is burning a hole in my pocket. Are you up for taking the bike out to the coast, maybe watch the sunset over dinner at McGuire's?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The sun had been replaced by the moon by the time the waiter removed the last of the dinner dishes.

Prescott handed the young man what remained of her tequila sunrise, smiling at McCoy's raised eyebrows.

"Contrary to Andy's opinion, I can stop when _I_ see fit. I do appreciate your refraining from lecturing me on the evils of liquor."

McCoy held his hands up.

"You're an adult. If you were driving, it would be a different," he said finishing his coffee. "But your not and being a hypocrite wouldn't change anything."

McCoy knew too well what effect a lecture would have had on Prescott. While it was obvious from the time he spent with her that day that she was probably drinking more than was advisable, pointing it out wasn't the solution.

"Did I mention I finally got around to announcing the Kibre promotion?"

"No, but I figured it was coming. Jake brought my mail by from the office yesterday. I saw the job posting had been sent out for her old position. How did it go over with the rest of the board? Any resistance from your senior staff?"

McCoy shook his head.

"Tracey's reputation speaks for it self. Besides, the hand writing as been on the wall some time. Kibre practically ran the office after the shooting. I went to the meetings I couldn't get out of. Kibre make the day to day stuff around the office happen. Although filling her old spot has been a problem."

Prescott raised an eyebrow.

"What about her assistant?"

"Gaffney? She's ready for a change. Now that Tracey's been kicked upstairs, she put in for an opening I have in the OCRB. It would be a good fit. But it'll leave me short in Robbery / Homicide. At least until I can get through the applications from the new crop of clerks…shuffle some more positions. I never knew the time Arthur or Adam took just keeping the office staffed" McCoy paused, seeming to hesitate.

"What?"

McCoy shook his head.

"Nothing. You wouldn't be interested. Besides, I wouldn't want to burden you with my staffing problems," he said turning his attention to the dinner bill.

Prescott frowned. She knew he was leading her somewhere, she just couldn't figure out where.

"Jack, what are you getting at?"

"Well, I thought…since you're not working. No. It would be completely selfish on my part-"

"_WHAT_," she asked, exasperated.

"Well, two things really. First, there's this Bar Association dinner next week I have to speak at -Thursday night. I'd like to deligate it to an EADA, but Arthur made me promise before he left I wouldn't be a no show. It might be bearable, it if you went with me."

"I don't see a problem," she said warily. "It's not like I'd have court the next morning. Sure, I'll go. What is the other thing?"

"Since you said yourself you're not tied up with work, you could spend some time in Manhattan. Spend the week, maybe two. Do some shopping, see a play, maybe more?"

"If you where still trying cases, I come in for the day just to watch you in the courtroom," she said seriously. _"That_ I would have enjoyed. But, right now? Maybe if Ben were back from his trip, I'd hang out at NYU with him, maybe get caught up with Shambala. But to just bum around New York, naw. I'd rather stick around here and see what's going to happen when Mr. Weaver arrives Monday."

_Which is exactly what I want to avoid_, McCoy thought as the waiter took the tray.

"Would you consider doing some research for robbery/homicide instead?"

_There it is,_ she thought smugly.

"Nice try, Jack. But there are about a million reasons why that's a bad idea."

"Start with one."

"Ah gee how about we have apersonal relationship? I can't transfer to a office you run. It would be a conflict of interest," she said as the smile on her face deepened. "It would be parallel to involvement with an assistant."

"That's never bothered me before why would it now," he countered.

"Besides, I live in Islip. Between the ferry and the train daily, commuting would be unrealistic. Just because I'm pissed at my boss right now doesn't mean I would really quit and start over in another office. Besides, I'm on leave. You couldn't hire me even if I went along with it."

"I asked for one reason. I count three," he said jokingly. "I think the lady doth protest too much. In any event I don't want to hire you. I told you this was completely selfish on my part. I said research. I thought maybe you could do some leg work for my people. Free them up for court, taking depositions… you could research case law. Be a non paid intern."

Prescott laughed.

"You want me to do grunt work for free? Why?"

"I need the help, unless that would interfere with your schedule for another gothic make over?"

"Your people in robbery / homicide won't take well to having a friend of the DA hovering."

"They're good people, Brooke. Besides, they're swamped. They'll welcome experienced help with open arms".

Prescott sat back, reflecting on his offer.

"The hotel bill would be outrageous."

McCoy grinned sheepishly, pleased with his win.

"I can think of some ways around that."


	6. Rubber Chicken Dinner: The Gala

_Sorry for the delay. Hard drive died! Not thrilled with this chapter, but I don't want to keep you guys waiting - may revise depending on your feedback. I'm amazed how not writing for a few days makes it so much harder to start again...kind of like exercise. Have more, but it needs on meore going over, will have it up Sunday for sure. Hope you like. As always, comments - good or bad - are appreciated!_

"Brooke, the car will be here in five minutes."

"Then I'll be ready in four."

Jack McCoy shook head as he moved away from the door that lead to the private bathroom in his office and over to the rack where his tuxedo jacket hung. With two marriages under his belt, he knew from experience saying more would only further delay their departure. He slipped the black jacket over the fitted dress shirt and snatched the final draft of his speech off the desk, giving it one last scan.

"I didn't think I'd catch you. Aren't you supposed to be at the Marriot by 7:30?"

McCoy looked up to find Connie Rubirosa standing in the doorway.

"Cocktails start at 7:30. Cutting short the opportunity to rub elbows with the mayor and his entourage won't break my heart, " he answered as he slipped the pages in his pocket and began to fumble with his tie. "What's the word on Swensen?"

"Tracey asked me to tell you Judge Anderlee suppressed the gun. We're meeting with Arthur Gold in the morning to try to plead it out."

McCoy swore softly upon hearing the results of the suppression hearing, as well as at his growing frustration with the thin strip of material around his neck.

"What are you offering?"

"Murder Two: Fifteen to life."

"Murder Two. But you tell Tracey I said nothing less. Arthur Gold will do his damnedest to get her down to Man One".

"Here," Rubirosa said as reached for the tie, "let me do that. I'm surprised, Jack. The way you slip in and out of your suits I thought you could tie a tie without thinking twice."

"Not these. One more reason I hate black tie affairs."

Rubirosa smiled faintly as she moved a step back to inspect her handiwork.

"Done."

"Thanks. When did you master the art of tying a bow tie?"

"I have brothers. By the time the last one went to senior prom I was a pro at ties and cummr bunds."

"Two minutes to spare, it doesn't get better than that," Prescott said with satisfaction as she added a garment bag to the collection of clothing on the rack. "Connie, hi. I'd didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," she said. "We just finished. Great dress. You look beautiful."

"Thanks to you, Connie. I found exactly what I was looking for at that shop you told me about."

"Glad I could help," Rubirosa said smiling as she turned to McCoy. "I think this is the first black tie affair Jack's hasn't delegated to myself or Tracey since becoming DA."

"You know what they say," McCoy replied confidently, his eyes still never leaving Prescott," the key to being a successful administrator is knowing how to delegate. The ticket to the next dinner is yours, Connie."

Rubirosa rolled her eyes.

"I can't wait."

Before McCoy could reply the phone on the desk rang.

"McCoy…Thanks, we'll be right down. Car's here," he said as he offered Prescott his arm. "Connie, call me after you and Tracey finish with Arthur. I want to be kept posted on that plea."

"Got it," she said as she followed the pair out and started back towards her office. "Have fun."

As the elevator doors closed Prescott frowned.

"You know Jack, I'm not one to fish for compliments but getting to Manhattan Monday, trying to find a dress for the Manhattan legal communities event of the year by Thursday in between starting a new job albeit unpaid, and setting up household, so to speak, with you as been challenging to say the least. I think I deserve at least a 'you look nice' for my trouble."

"I thought you were big on actions, not blarney," he teased. "I learned along time ago about the cameras in this building, otherwise I'd _show_ you exactly what kind of effect you in that dress has on me. As much as I hate being chauffeured around, I see an immediate advantage to the town car tonight. But for the record, beautiful would be an understatement."

Prescott smiled up at him as she straightened his tie.

"Sounds like there's a story to be told about you and those cameras. Dare I ask?"

McCoy smiled slightly at the memory of an elevator ride not long after he'd been hired, a secretary, and late night 'initiation' challenge- in the spirit of the 'mile high club' - when common sense was overridden by youthful arrogance and lust.

The following morning his then boss Alfred Wentworth, had abruptly called a staff meeting to inform the office - the whole time giving McCoy a knowing gaze- that the new security system that had been installed included camera's. Camera's in the elevators and the lobby area's. Although his reputation as an office Romero lived on for many years afterward, it was the last time McCoy initiated more than verbal flirting anywhere within the confines of Hogan Place with a co worker.

"No," he said simply, his face somewhat flushed.

Prescott gave him a nudge, grinning.

"That's alright. I'll just take Crocker to lunch tomorrow. I hear he's been around since Frank Hogan - knows where all the bodies are buried," she said mischievously as the doors opened.

In the four days that she had been in Manhattan, Prescott had found her time to be an interesting sting of contradictions and surprises. She immediately took to the ADA's in the Robbery/Homicide Bureau. Kelly Gaffney had been especially friendly and easy to work for. It had been years since she'd done the preliminary case law research needed for trial and motions. While not as fast paced as trial work, she was amazed how much she recalled from memory, as well as how quickly the time flew researching and writing briefs.

When McCoy had made his offer, Prescott knew there was more to it than McCoy needing experienced hands to help out during a supposed staffing crunch. It didn't take her long to realize how deep his concern for her went. While she chafed at the idea of being looked after, she was intrigued enough with the idea of spending time with McCoy, that she had accepted his offer to do some part time clerking and to stay at his apartment.

When she arrived in Manhattan she found McCoy's hospitality inviting and more than a little ironic. When she thought of the heart felt warnings her dear friend Ben Stone had given her several weeks before, she almost laughed out loud. McCoy's reputation as a ladies man had reached Suffolk county long before his troubles with Diana Hawthorne and Samantha Weaver had surfaced. When McCoy had made what she assumed was his tongue and cheek offer of his guest room, she never dreamed he was serious.

"_Is this pay back for that slap I gave you awhile back," she had joked the first night of her stay. _

_They had been lingering in front of the guest room door, much like two teenagers saying goodnight before curfew. McCoy had looked down at her grinning, giving her another lingering kiss before replying._

"_Hardly," he had said softly as he met her puzzled gaze. "You were right that day. Too much liquor, not enough food. I still couldn't believe I was actually going through with it - taking Arthur's place. I wasn't myself. I'm not making the same mistake the first time we make love. Even if you won't talk to me about it, we both know you haven't been yourself since the shooting. That's not a criticism, just a statement of fact. I'm not about to take advantage of that."_

The first night Prescott had found McCoy's concern sweet and touching. By Wednesday evening it was a challenge. When she went shopping for a dress for the New York City Bar Associations annual awards dinner, she was a woman on a mission. Preoccupied with the long overdue consummation of her relationship with Jack McCoy, she took his former assistant for a drink Wednesday evening asking the younger woman to point her in the direction of a dress that would wow her boss. A tricky proposition given the conservative clientele that would be attending the Bar Associations annual gala.

As they drove towards the Midtown Marriot she knew the black satin gown was having the effect desired as McCoy's hand slid one of the tin black straps below her shoulder while his lips worked their way down her neck. The light satin evening gown featured a soft wrap around A line skirt that hugged her figure. The bodice's asymmetrical pleating was finished with beading and sequins to add drama without flash, creating an elegant yet edgy look that was conservative enough for the gala, yet daring enough to catch and hold McCoy's attention.

"It looks like someone's playing dirty tonight," he whispered. "How am I supposed to concentrate on making a speech, when you're such a distraction?"

"What is it they say in college when you take Speech 101? I remember," she said seductively. "Just pretend everybody's undressed."

"There's a word for women like you, Brooke."

Prescott held his face in her hands and slowly licked her lips.

"And what might that be?"

"Wanton. You're a wanton harlot," he declared as he gave her a final kiss before the town car stopped in front of the hotel.

The pair arrived in time for a quick drink with the mayor before seating for dinner began. As dinner progressed McCoy went through the required small talk he dreaded. It was one thing to cover for Arthur Branch or Adam Schiff; little more than a polite nod every so often and reading whatever speech the DA had sent to be read his fulfilled his obligations for the evening .

McCoy's ability to speak eloquently on his feet was what made him a formidable prosecutor. However, replying politely to what McCoy labeled as endless prattling about the flaws of the criminal justice system by people who had no idea about the day to day realities of working within the system, forced him to exercise more self control than he ever had to in a courtroom. By the time dessert and coffee arrived it was apparent to Prescott that McCoy desperately needed a break.

When the mayor and his wife excused themselves to go chat with a couple across the room Prescott stood, taking McCoy's hand.

"Jack, what do you say we take a walk before the speeches begin?"

McCoy's eyes lit up at the mention of escape.

"Now I know how convicts feel when parole finally comes," he whispered as he guided her from the main table out into the foyer.

"This is nothing. Wait until your re election campaign starts."

McCoy shot her a so filled with foreboding, Prescott started to giggle.

"Hey, McCoy whaddaya doin'slumin' out here with the common folk," demanded Jamie Ross who was standing with a small group of people near the bar.

McCoy smiled broadly as he made the introductions - Danielle Melnick and her date, Judge Ross and her husband , Shelly Kates and her law partner just as Shambala Green and Ben Stone walked up.

"Brooke," demanded Shambala Green as she opened her arms in greeting. "Girl, how long have you been in Manhattan and why haven't I known about it?"

As the two women embraced greetings went around, McCoy offering his hand to Ben Stone.

"Good evening Ben. Brooke didn't think you were back from Australia."

Stone grasped the hand looking inquiringly at the couple.

"I sent Brooke an email last week. I got back late last Thursday."

"I'm sorry Ben. I've been out of the office. I haven't checked my email in a few weeks. How was Australia?"

"A few _weeks_," Green asked clearly surprised. "Does that have anything to do with the Weaver shooting?"

Prescott lead the couple away from the group as she filled them in on the events leading up to the lawsuit.

"Let me understand this," Stone deadpanned. "McCoy took this woman home. She tried to kill him and now your being named in a suit because you saved his worthless hide? I'm truly sorry about the effect this is having on your life, but frankly Brooke I can't believe this is the first time something like this has happened to Jack. I doubt it will be the last."

Prescott and Green chuckled.

"Well, I guess that's one way to look at it," Prescott said shaking her head.

"You always did have a way with a summation, husband."

"Well if you can laugh about it, you're doing remarkably well," Stone remarked.

"Actually I was in pretty bad shape," Prescott admitted. She paused bracing herself for Stone's inevitable reaction. "If Jack hadn't talked me into coming into the city, I probably wouldn't be laughing about much of anything."

Green looked up at her husband whose face was void of emotion.

"Nothing's changed. He's the same calculating bastard he's alwayss been. I knew he'd worm his way into your heart."

Before Prescott could respond Neal Gorton thrust an envelope towards her bowing slightly.

"Mrs. Prescott. Something told me I might run into you this evening. Professor Stone, was it?"

"Good evening Mr. Gorton," Stone said wearily. " I don't believe you know my wife. Shambala Green, Neal Gorton of Gorton and Steinhart."

"I know your wife by reputation, Professor Stone. A pleasure Ms. Green."

" I know you by reputation as well, Mr. Gorton," Green said extracting her hand from Gorton's. "Judge Ross and I are well acquainted."

"I'm sure you know better than to listen to a bittier ex-wife, Ms. Green. I apologize for ruining your evening Mrs. Prescott, but I've been trying all week to have you served . Your office didn't know how to reach you. I took a chance you might have come in tonight to hear Mr. McCoy make his first speech as our new DA."

Prescott looked up from the summons handing it to McCoy as he joined the group.

"I hate to disappoint you but I've been expecting something like this," Prescott said calmly. "I'll have my legal counsel contact your office Friday."

McCoy handed the summons to Stone.

"Since when did you start practicing civil law," McCoy asked abruptly.

"Gorton and Steinhart has always had a civil suits department, Mr. McCoy. Because the nature of this suit, I will be overseeing the case. It warrants the attention of the senior partner. Don't feel left out, you'll be getting your summons Friday morning- I know where to find you."

Stone passed the summons to Green and looked at Prescott apprehensively.

"I have former students working in the civil department and Gorton and Steinhart. They have the best civil department on the eastern seaboard. Whose your civil counsel?"

"Beckham and Chase in Long Island. Don't start Ben - I know Beckham senior retired last year. It's academic. I wouldn't be surprised if Gorton's going to go for a change in venue. Try to say Islip judges will be biased dealing with a suit against a hometown ADA. Chances are I'm going to have to look for someone here in Manhattan. Not just for civil representation if Neal Gorton is taking an interest."

Stone and McCoy looked at each other shrewdly.

"The only reason Gorton would oversee a civil case is to determine whether to move forward with a criminal action," McCoy admitted.

"It looks like their ready to start the speeches," Green interjected as people began to move back towards the dining room.

Prescott took McCoy's arm, when Stone took her other hand.

"Brooke, call me Friday morning - better yet. Meet me a Petra's, one o'clock," Stone said firmly. "I think I might be able to help."


	7. Tonight's the Night

"Civil law isn't even his area of expertise," McCoy said irritably as he stripped off his tie.

"It's not your area of expertise either," Prescott reminded him as they continued the discussion that had begun on their way back to McCoy's apartment from the gala. " But I still trust your judgment."

"Then tell Stone to stay the hell out of it," he said flipping the kitchen light on.

"Jack, we both know Ben Stone is an exceptional trial lawyer. Besides, He'd be working closely with my civil attorney in Islip."

"I'll call Alyssa Goodwin in the morning. Her firm handles a variety of civil matters. She's well equiped to tear Gorton apart."

"Your _ex wife's _divorce lawyer," Prescott said incredulously. "You told me yourself how cut throat Alyssa Goodwin is."

"That's what you're going to need if you're going to go up against someone like Neal Gorton."

"Turning this into a pissing contest isn't going to play well. Face it Jack, I need the _anti_ Gorton: Someone that's as knowledgeable and skillful as Neal Gorton, but smart enough not to play the grand showman in the courtroom. Someone that will defuse Gorton, but make him look like the ass he is, while presenting a solid case. Can you really think of a better contrast to Neal Gorton than Ben Stone?"

McCoy hated to admit the man who still held him responsible for Claire Kincaid's death could be right. About anything.

"Do you want a drink," he asked as he removed two glasses from a kitchen cabinet.

"No, thanks. Listen there's no point in debating it until the depositions are done and we see what Gorton's next move is," she said removing her earrings. "Besides, there are other things I'd like to discuss tonight."

"Such as," he asked as he removed a small bottle from his pants pocket.

"Do you feel a migraine coming on," she asked unwittingly holding her breath.

When she and McCoy had been at the emergency room after Samantha Weaver had been shot, the charge nurse had asked the usual questions about medical history. She remembered McCoy mentioning he had a history of migraines. While Prescott was confident in her ability to turn the conversation away from Ben Stone and whatever antics Neal Gorton might have planned, she knew a migraine would put a quick end to any hopes of ending the evening as she had planned.

McCoy shook his head as he turned on the tap.

"Amazingly, no. Which is a minor miracle given the evening we've had. These are sleeping pills," he said grinning sheepishly."For some reason, I've been more... restless than usual, since you arrived."

Prescott reached for McCoy's hand and gently set the pills on the counter.

"Have you, " she said as she run a hand along his lapel." I can think of a more enjoyable way to help you relax."

McCoy smiled down at her as he ran his hands over her shoulders, more than ready to continue their flirtatious game of chicken from the night before.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well, that depends on you," she said opening his shirt as her lips found his collar bone. "You realize you have been remiss in your duties as a host?"

"How so," he asked his deep voice as seductive as the hands that slowly rubbed her back." When a lady spends the night, I make every effort to be..accommodating."

"When I first arrived you said something about letting you know if I needed anything."

"I seem to remember saying those words," he replied obviously amused.

"Well, it seems to me I've made _my_ needs more than clear," she said as her hands stroked his chest.

"I don't know about that. I wouldn't want to get slapped again. Maybe you could be more…direct," he said as he slowly unzipped the back of her dress while he lifted her head, bringing his lips down on hers.

She could feel her pulse quicken as his hands slid the spaghetti straps off her shoulders, his lips moving from her mouth to the base of her neck.

"Is this clear enough," she asked as she began to unzip his trousers. McCoy blinked, right on cue. As she expected, a hand covered hers. After almost a week of mounting frustration, she wasn't accepting his unspoken answer. She firmly took his hand, moving it away.

McCoy ran a hand over her face, moving the stray strands of hair away back from her face.

"This isn't a good idea," he said, his voice unsteady. "I don't want you to do this as an escape. As away to avoid dealing with -"

" You're right, Jack. This shouldn't be an escape. I killed someone and I wasn't dealing with it," she explained, struggling to put her thoughts into words." When I started carrying a gun, I just …I never thought I'd kill…I always expected it would be a professional. Someone Vladimir Volenski had sent to finish what he started when he had Sam killed. I don't mean to sound paranoid…I mean, it's been years. But those people aren't just killers, they're ruthless killing machines. I just wasn't prepared for what happened that day at your house."

McCoy nodded, thinking of his own dealings with the Russian Mob and the colleagues, as well as witnesses, that had been assassinated by them.

"You're not paranoid, you're pragmatic. Besides, if you hadn't had that gun I wouldn't be standing here right now. Samantha Weaver may not have been a professional assassin, but she was a woman with vengeance in her heart."

Prescott nodded, running her fingers through the hair that had become more salt than pepper over the years.

"I'd like to believe that. That it's that clear cut, but I just don't know. The point is," she said pressing a finger against his lips to silence the him, "as much as I didn't want to admit it, I was reacting to it. I was drinking way too much, which you little scheme has served to reduce considerably. Giving me a way to work was more than smart. It was generous."

Prescott kissed him tenderly, the way she had the first time they had kissed. He responded in kind. They carefully explored each others lips before his tongue parted her lips. While the kiss lingered, McCoy's awareness intensified: The sound of their breathing becoming deeper, the smell of perfume on Prescott's neck, the faint taste of strawberries as he leisurely explored her mouth.

He pressed her back against the counter as he lost himself in the feel of her mouth, the kiss moving slowly from tender exploration to demanding passion. Her hands completed their task, moving his trousers down passed his waist to his knees. McCoy moved to step out of the trousers, careful not to break the embrace.

Prescott laughed softly, relieved and stimulated by her victory. She slid his underwear off quickly, unwilling to give McCoy a chance to protest. Her hands eagerly explored what for so long had been denied.

"God, you feel good," she whispered.

McCoy closed his eyes, moaning with pleasure as his body responded to the slow steady strokes that quickly fell into a urgent rhythm with his instinctive thrusting. As much as he worried whether either of them had truly come to terms with the events of the last month, his body reveled in the feel of her, longing to finally have her completely.

McCoy pushed the dress over her hips, letting it fall to the floor. He stepped back and gazed at Prescott standing in only her heels, the briefest of black lace panties, and a pair of sheer thigh high stockings.

McCoy grinned down at her, as his hands began to caress her breasts.

"Had I known what little was under that dress we might not have made it to the Marriot at all."

"Maybe next time you'll be more through in your fondling," she said her voice barely audible.

McCoy laughed softly as he roughly pulled her to him. He kissed her deeply, with intensity that left Prescott weak with desire, as his hands roamed over her body. Reluctantly, her hands grabbed his shoulders as she felt her knees begin to buckle. Without warning, McCoy broke the kiss. He looked down at her, struggling to regain control as he grasped her hands.

"You're sure this is what you want," he asked softly as he held her startled gaze.

Prescott stared at him, uncomprehending.

"What makes you ask that,_ now_?'

"Ben Stone isn't right about much," McCoy said quietly. "But he was right about me. I can be a real bastard. My so called 'reputation' is well deserved. My track record - which includes two failed marriages - speaks for itself. You mean a great deal to me, Brooke. I'd never intentionally hurt you, but I stopped making promises a long time ago. You need to understand that."

Prescott looked down at the discarded gown, then over to pile of clothing beside McCoy and started to laugh.

"You mean you're not a boy scout? You sure picked a hell of a time to come clean, McCoy! Given that escape clause you felt obliged to give yourself, it _would_ serve you right if I said, 'You're right! What the hell was I thinking,' and left. But I'm not going to do that, because you mean a great deal to me as well," she said thoughtfully. " I wouldn't be here if you didn't."

Prescott paused as she looked up, scanning the long face. Although McCoy struggled to keep his face expressionless, his dark eyes held a look of tenderness beneath the world weary gaze that touched her. She smiled up at him as she gently stroked his cheek, suspecting what was at the heart of his apprehension.

"There are some things you ought to know, as well. You're not the only one that doesn't make promises anymore. If there's anything I've learned in the past few years it's that life is uncertain, at best. I don't pretend to know where we're headed, Jack. I do know you're way too hard on yourself. You're not the only one that's made mistakes.The only thing I expect from you is your honesty. I don't expect you to be Sam Prescott. Don't expect me to be Claire Kincaid."

McCoy stared down at her, marveling at her intuitiveness. It had been a longtime since he'd cared this much about a woman. He'd never been one to outright lie to get anyone into bed - oh, he could pour on the charm when he had a mind to - he prided himself on not deliberately leading women on.Maybe it was the failure of his second marriage or the shooting or Claire's death...or another of numerous events in his life that made emotional closeness a challenge for him. But at that moment as determined as he was not to hurt her, it wasn't Brooke Prescott's vulnerability that concerned him, it was his own.

"I won't lie and say I don't still think about Claire. But I want you, Brooke. Not Claire. I'll never lie to you," he said with sincerity that surprised them both as kissed her.

Prescott wrapped her arms around his neck as McCoy broke the kiss and scooped her up, carrying her to his bedroom.

As he laid her down he began removing the stockings with excruciating care, caressing each leg from the top of her thighs to the tips of her toes. By the time he finished Prescott was aroused to the point of delirium, aching for this hands to move between her legs.

McCoy smiled down at her, his hands resting just inside each of her thighs.

"Do you want me to stop," he asked amused.

Prescott answered him by rolling on top of him. She kissed his mouth hungrily, waiting until she felt his arms tighten around her, hearing him moan softly before breaking away as she slowly moved downward. McCoy's breath became shallow as he anticipated what was next.

His eyes closed as her mouth began to explore his rigid shaft. As he grew more excited he felt himself begin to thrust as he called her name.

She paused long enough to give him as taste of his own medicine.

"Do you want me to stop," she asked in a low sultry whisper.

She could hear his quiet laugh as he abruptly took a hold of her, swiftly rolling on top of her, as he removed her panties.

He kissed her mouth ravenously, as a hand moved down her abdomen.

"Oh God," she whispered as his hand moved between her legs. She heard herself gasp as his fingers slid over her with maddening slowness as her body moved with his touch, eager to feel him inside her.

"Jack, please," she hissed as her body lifted off the mattress.

McCoy used his knee to spread her legs further apart as he slipped the first finger inside her.

"Oh God, don't stop … don't stop Jack," she pleaded as she began to lose control.

"Not this time," he said softly, slipping another finger inside her as his lips traveled leisurely over her breasts teasingly licking and sucking as he worked his way down.

His hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere. She felt his mouth replace his fingers exploring the wetness between her legs. She cried out, wrapping her legs around his shoulders her body consumed with pleasure as she withered under his touch.

" Jack…God it's so good," she murmured as she lost control, her body stiffening as a wave of ecstasy washed over her. It seemed like the orgasisms would never end.

McCoy looked up smiling at the expression of bliss on Prescott's face. He wrapped her in arms he kissed her softly.

"How are you doing," he asked smiling down at her. "Ready to call it a night?"

Prescott grinned slyly as her hand traveled down his inner thigh, reaching for him.

"Hardly," she said breathlessly. "That was amazing, Jack. But I suspect the best is yet to come."

McCoy returned the grin, once again holding her tightly as he rolled them over. This time placing Prescott on top.

"If you insist," he said dutifully. "Do with me what you will."

Prescott reclaimed his cock with her hands as she showered McCoy with light lingering kisses over his chest and abdomen. As she felt him begin to move with her touch she felt herself becoming aroused once more. Not sure how much more she could withstand, yet wanting to give McCoy as much pleasure as he'd given her, Prescott's lips found his throbbing organ once more.

Her body ached for him to be inside her as she heard him moan, his thrusts coming faster and more urgent.

Just as she began to bring him to the edge he pulled her to him, kissing her deeply as he moved to slip his cock inside her.

She leaned back, eyes closed as she moved her hips with him. She could feel his hands on her breast as she began to climax. She moved forward, kissing his mouth as he rolled on top of her.

"I'm not going to last much longer," he gasped.

"You don't have to," she panted." Do what you will, counselor."

McCoy crushed his lips down on hers, his thrusts becoming more rapid as he began to cum. He grabbed her wildly, pressing her to him as he plunged himself deep within her.


	8. No Promises: Ben & Shambala

Still half a sleep, Jack McCoy stretched an arm towards the night table by his bed. His fingers fumbled with the alarm clock while his other arm held the woman beside him. Reluctantly he opened his eyes annoyed that the faint buzzing sound that had woken him hadn't seized.

As he glanced at the bright red numbers on the clock he realized where the sound was coming from. Silently he swore, realizing he'd neglected to make his nightly call to his daughter. Chances were good, that was who was calling him. He thought about making a dash for the cell phone that lay in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, when the buzzing finally ended.

It was 6:45 Friday morning. He knew Rebecca wouldn't be leaving for work for another half hour. He told himself he'd call her at seven, wanting to alleviate any concern she might be feeling, yet not ready for the lecture he knew he had coming for breaking his promise. He sighed, returning to the spoon like position he'd slept through the night in. His lover instinctively moved closer as she faintly spoke his name while she slept.

He thought of Brooke Prescott's words, from that awful night Diana Hawthorne had been found dead. _I slapped you because you scare the hell out of me…._ McCoy looked down at the woman sleeping peacefully in his arms, reaching down to carefully sweep the auburn locks away from her face. He studied her face, fascinated that she could appear even more beautiful asleep, than she had the night before.

_Now whose had the hell scared out of them, _he thought ironically. The road that lead to his second marriage began with a night of incredible passion, with a trusted friend and colleague. The relationship moved quickly, ridiculously quickly, in retrospect. Going from sweet to sour even faster after they'd married. It was not a road he intended to travel down again.

Prescott's straightforwardness and ready wit were a welcome change after a marriage that even in the best of times, had been tumultuous. Although he'd been as eager to bring to an end the chaste nature of their relationship as Prescott, he couldn't shake the feeling he had put something precious to him at risk.

Prescott looked up at him, smiling lazily as she snuggled closer to him.

"Save that scowl for your meeting," she teased. "It's got to be too early for such a serious face. What time is it?"

"Almost seven. We've got another hour. Go back to sleep."

Prescott stretched her body as she rolled over to face him.

" I'm not tired. I can't remember the last time I've slept so soundly. How about you?"

His body was already responding to the feel of her body against his. In spite of any misgivings, his hands began to move over her body as he wrapped a leg across her.

"You wore me out counselor,"he replied, refreshed from the first dreamless night he'd had since the shooting. "I slept like a baby."

Prescott ran hand through his tossled hair she looked up at him wide eyed.

"Gee an hour before we need to get up and neither of us is sleepy. Whatever should we do to pass the time?"

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"If we keep this up you're gonna kill me woman,"McCoy said hoarsely as he fell back on to his side of the bed.

Prescott leaned over kissed him lightly as she chuckled.

"You'll get a chance to recover at your daughter's place this weekend."

McCoy looked sharply at the clock, kissing her quickly as he stood.: 7:27.

"Becky's going to give me hell," he said as he reached for his robe.

Prescott closed her eyes as McCoy went into the living room. She smiled as she heard the relief in McCoy's voice a few minutes later, as he left an apologetic message for his daughter.

McCoy was placing his cell phone on the counter when Prescott appeared, clad in one of his white dress shirts. She followed McCoy into the kitchen and started making a fresh pot of coffee.

"Sounds like you lucked out and got voice mail? I hope you don't mind the shirt."

"Mind? It looks better on you anyway. I forgot to call her last night. It least with voice mail I can grovel without hearing the you-had-me-up-all- night speech," he said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Still planning to meet with Ben today, are you?"

"Yes. Do you want bacon and eggs or do you have another breakfast meeting," she asked as she turned on the stove.

"I do, but those Corruption Task Force people think breakfast means a danish and decaf," he said with a frown. " You realize I think you're making mistake? Maybe I should reschedule my visit with Becky. We could spend sometime this weekend meeting with your attorney if he's available-"

"Jack, you were right," she said as she arranged the bacon in a the skillet. "this law suit may not go anywhere. Go. Becky's looking forward to seeing her Dad. Nothing's going to change between now and Monday."

"You are welcome to come with me," he said carefully.

Prescott shook her head.

"Not that I wouldn't like to get to know your daughter," she said bluntly. "But it's too soon. For you and for her. She's expecting to spend some time with her Father. I don't want to intrude on that."

McCoy looked at the floor, suddenly feeling very transparent.

"Brooke, last night was amazing. You're amazing," he said came up behind her, his arms around her waist. "If I led you to believe otherwise-"

Prescott turned to face him clearly annoyed.

"Stop walking on egg shells with me. You are a fantastic lover, but you're a terrible liar, Jack. I could see it on your face when I woke up. It's obvious you have mixed feelings about last night. I'm not going to add to that by going to Maine with you. If you have regrets just say so, but spare me your morning after speech," she said turning back to the skillet. " I deserve better."

"Yeah, you do," he said quietly. "I don't want things to change between us because we've slept together. It seems to be a continuing trend in my relationships with women that sex seems becomes equated with disaster."

Prescott looked up at him, the frustration in her eyes replaced by a look of sympathetic understanding.

"You are truly a conundrum, Jack McCoy."

McCoy gave her a sideways look .

"I've been called worse," he said amused. "I guess it's better than having you hit me over the head with that skillet."

"You're usually so self assured, it's easy to forget you're just as a vulnerable as the rest of us. Hey, grab me a plate for this, will you?"

"Conundrum, vulnerable," he said, setting a plate beside her. "not the usual words I've heard used to describe myself. You're gonna destroy my reputation as a hard ass if word gets out."

"Maybe I'm a little more rusty at this than I thought. I thought it was the woman that worried the morning after about things changing. Do I need to tell you I still respect you," she joked as she set the plate of bacon aside and opened the carton of eggs.

"Maybe if you'd had a marriage like my last one, you wouldn't be quite so flippant," he said grabbed two mugs from the drain board.

"Is that were this is coming from? I have news for you McCoy, just because I had a good marriage doesn't mean it wasn't work. Besides, it's not like I was a kid when I married Sam. You and I aren't so different. I've had a few bad relationships, one of which was after Sam died - with a coworker," she said candidly, smiling as his eyes widened inquiringly. "Didn't see that one coming, did you? Maybe if you cut the crap and relax, I'll tell you about it sometime."

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"Jack, didn't you check you're voice mail? I've been trying to reach you all morning," Connie Rubirosa asked as she followed the District Attorney for New York county from the elevator into his office.

"I've been in meetings all morning,I had the cell phone off," he said as he took the handful of messages from his administrative assistant as he passed by the desk outside his office. "What's so urgent?"

"You told me to keep you posted on the Swensen case. Tracey and I met with Arthur Gold this morning. No deal Jack. You were right. He rejected Murder Two without batting an eyelash. He said it's Man One or he'll take his chances with the jury."

McCoy nodded pulling on his glasses as he reviewed the messages in his hand, taking a seat behind his desk. He motioned for Rubirosa to sit as well, as he set the pile aside.

"The guns out, your witness is shaky at best…what do you want to do?"

Rubirosa struggled to keep her jaw from dropping. Since McCoy had taken over the as DA, he'd been so hands on with the Major Felony cases she felt as if he was prosecuting cases vicariously through herself and Kibre. This was the first time she could remember him asking her opinion instead of giving her a dictate.

"Man One is better than an acquittal. Tracey has been tap dancing in court. We both know there's not enough solid evidence for a jury to convict. At least if Swensen takes a plea he'll be off the street. He'll have to allocate. That might give the victims family some closure."

"It's 12:30 now. Page Kibre and have her meet you at Angelina's - Gold usually goes to lunch there during a trial. If you hurry you can deal it down before court reconvenes at 1:00."

Rubirosa stood, taken aback.

"That's _it_? You're going to accept this without a fight?"

McCoy smiled up at her as he picked up the receiver.

"I trust you judgment, Connie. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No...no, problem."

"Anything else?"

Rubirosa shook her head. She started for the door, suddenly turning back to him.

"Michael Jackowicz, Jack McCoy returning his call," he said looking up. "Something else?"

"Ah, yeah," she asked hesitantly. "How'd it go last night? At the dinner, I mean. You seem…more relaxed."

"Are you implying something counselor," he asked with mock scowl. "I'm always relaxed. Go find Gold, before I change my mind and take a stroll down to Part 24 to battle it out with him myself."

Rubirosa smirked making a mental note to call Robbery /Homicide after court.

"Michael, what can I do for you?"

"You can tell me why one of my Senior Prosecutors is in Manhattan, clerking for you," the gruff voice on the other end of the phone responded curtly.

"I was under the impression your senior prosecutor was persona non gratis in your office," McCoy countered. "Your EADA put Prescott on leave. I'm shorthanded. Since your office isn't using her, I saw no reason to let her talents go to waste. Do you have a problem with that?"

"If I didn't have a problem with that we wouldn't be having this conversation and you damn well know it, Jack. First of all she's on leave - Clint Renard didn't fire her - she still has a job in Suffolk county. Second, I need to know where the hell my people are. Gorton and Steinhart has been breathing down my neck trying to get a disposition from her all damn week-"

"Gorton served her yesterday. She's meeting with an attorney this afternoon,"McCoy said, silently hoping some divine intervention would keep that meeting from taking place.

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Petra's was a small Greek café a few blocks from Centre Street. As the weather was unseasonably mild, Ben Stone opted for a table outside with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. He was watching the traffic on the bridge lost in his thoughts, when a familiar voice caused him to look up.

"It's not too late to change your mind."

Stone smiled up at the striking African - American woman who stood over him. It always amazed Stone how, even after years as husband and wife, the sight of Shambala Green still took his breath away. With every passing year she seemed to defy age becoming not only more beautiful but a more fascinating partner, as well.

Stone motioned for her to sit as the waitress brought his glass of chardonnay.

"Join me for a drink, counselor?"

"Wish I could. I have to head back to Hogan Place soon. I'm meeting with Kelley Gaffney in twenty minutes," she said as sat down.

"Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Not yet, I'm expecting someone else," he said waiting for the waitress to depart before he continued."Didn't we have this conversation at breakfast? "

"We started it at breakfast. That doesn't mean we're done. Ben, you are one of the best trial lawyers I know," she said squeezing his hand. "as much as you enjoy teaching, I know a part of you still misses being in a court room on a regular basis. When you've taken the occasional case over the years, I've seen the spark, the excitement that I used to see when you and I went up against each other in court. But this time…you know you're not doing this for the right reasons."

"Come on Shambala. Since when is wanting to help a friend - a friend of both of ours - not reason enough to take a case?"

Green leaned forward looking into her husbands eyes intently.

"I believe you want to help Brooke. This whole thing, her being sued for wrongful death, it's disgraceful. Someone's obviously got some money or some other kind of influence otherwise it wouldn't have gone this far. Wanting to help Brooke is all well and good. Wanting to yank Jack McCoy's chain is spiteful and adolescent. It's beneath you, Ben and you know it."

Stone looked away from his wife, picking up the wine glass.

"I'll admit I get some pleasure from the knowledge Jack disapproves. But I wouldn't have made the offer if I wasn't concerned about Brooke. There's no way Jack can handle the case, anyway. He just became DA, besides he's a witness. He can't represent her. I may not have practiced civil law, but I've been teaching it since Meyerson retired. I'm up on civil law more than I was on criminal code when I was a DA. Teaching gives me that luxury. Hopefully, we'll be able to head this off before it goes to trial. Get a judge to grant a motion for dismissal based on insufficient evidence and make it go away. If not, she's going to need all the help she can get. Especially being involved with Jack."

"Listen Ben. If you really want to help Brooke, steer clear of her personal life," Green warned. "I've worked with Jack since Claire's death. I'm not saying he's a saint, but he's not the same man he was back then-"

Stone looked sharply at his wife.

"Claire may have been the last assistant he slept with, but she isn't the last woman he's manipulated. Do you really want to see Brooke end up like every other woman you know that's given him a second glance?"

Green shook her head in frustration. She knew from bitter experience this was one argument she could never win. She had sensed Stone's affection for his former assistant well before she and Stone had become involved. Although she had never asked, when she saw Stone at the memorial service for Claire Kincaid, it was obvious they had been much more than just co workers. People don't fly back from Europe to bury co worker or sit in a bar until four a m teary eyed and drunk out of their mind over 'just' a co worker.

Green had liked and respected Kincaid. She still couldn't quite comprehend the impact the young attorney had on two such different men, a decade after her death. Although she was secure in the knowledge Stone loved her deeply, she knew he'd always have a place in his heart reserved for Claire Kincaid. That he'd always view his abrupt departure from the DA's office as the decision that created an opportunity for Jack McCoy to become a significant part of Claire Kincaid's life. Which also lead to the events that put Kincaid in harmsway on that fateful night.

"Brooke's a strong woman. She got through not only burying a husband, but burying a husband that was on the Russian mafia's hit list. She's lucky to be alive herself. She's not a fool, Ben. She isn't going let any man give her grief, including Jack McCoy," Green impatiently. "Besides, last night is the first time I remember seeing either of those two look so…I don't know…alive in a longtime. Did you see the way they looked at each other when she handed Jack that subpoena? They were _both _glowing - and they're standing there dealing with Neal Gorton! There_ is _a spark between those two, whether you like it or not husband."


	9. Clancy'sCohen, Gaffney,Rubirosa,Brooke

_Sorry for the delay. Just got back into town. This chapter may not move the story much, but some of the dialogue I included was just too much fun to leave out. As always, hope you enjoy! _

By the time Brooke Prescott arrived at Clancy's the happy hour crowd had begun its departure. As she scanned the pub, she returned the series of waves and smiles from faces that had become familiar in the week she'd spent working in the Manhattan DA's office. As she moved passed the series of tables and booths, she saw him motioning for her to join him at the end of the bar.

Once she made her way to the handsome figure, a glass of champagne was thrust into her hand as the man stood, his green eyes full of mischief.

"I want to propose a toast. To you, Prescott, for taking the plunge and getting laid. I was about ready to take up a collection and send you an escort."

"How the hell do you know these things, Cohen" she sputtered. "Spending your free time on fire escapes with a telephoto lens again?"

"You're just easy. To read that is," he said deadpanned. "I saw you when you came in. You're walking funny, like when someone starts exercising. You know, using …muscles that have been dormant for a while."

"Pure conjecture," she said indifferently, as she became acutely aware of the dull ache in her inner thighs. "I'm just doing more walking in Manhattan than I normally do back home."

He gleefully grinned as Prescott's face flushed, giving Cohen confirmation that his assumption was indeed correct.

"You _are_ easy. I just figured five days and nights with Jack McCoy," he said shrugging his shoulders. " Well …the word_ inevitable _comes to mind. Besides, you usually border on compulsive when it comes to returning to your phone messages. When you didn't return my call Thursday night, I thought it was a safe bet you might be getting busy."

Prescott smacked Jake Cohen playfully on the arm as she swallowed a good portion of the contents of the champagne flute.

"If you weren't such a sight for sore eyes, I'd smack you into next week," she said as she embraced him. "At least Renard did one thing right and sent you to that seminar in Rockefeller Center I was supposed to attend. Gives us a chance to get caught up. Am I missing anything worth while?"

" From the seminar? Aside from the bunch buffet no, same ole same ole."

"Before you catch me up on the trail schedule, did you remember to bring my mail," Prescott asked.

Cohen slid a large manila envelope over to her.

"That includes mail from the office and your place. Forget about work - you already know the place is falling apart without you - tell me about McCoy. Afterwards, we can get to the more mundane stuff like if you're ever going to practice law again and preparing the note for my impending suicide if I have to second chair for Renard much longer."

"God Jake, you're worse than my niece," Prescott mumbled as peered into the envelope. "Sufficed to say your powers of deduction haven't failed you."

"That's it,? That's all you're going to say," Cohen said feigning indignation. "after everything I did to help get you two together? "

"Didn't anyone ever tell you a gentleman doesn't ask and a lady never tells," she said smugly .

"You know the rules of polite society don't apply to people like us," Cohen replied undaunted. "We're lawyers. At least answer me this: Was I right? There's more than a pretty…face there?"

Prescott put the envelope down as her expression softened.

"Much more than a pretty face," she said thoughtfully. "Jack is a complicated man. Not an easy man to know…lots of layers to go through before you begin get passed the surface."

Cohen nodded in understanding.

"Exactly what you need. Someone that challenges you. All right, Brooke. Interrogation over - at least for now. I heard Jackowicz's finally tracked you down."

"Yeah, when I didn't return his calls, he called my brother's place. Lindsay let it slip I'd gone to Manhattan. Didn't take long for our fearless DA to do some checking and figure out the rest. He called Jack this afternoon."

"Maybe you should talk to the Jackowicz. When alls said and done you're have to have to work with both Jackowicz and Renard. No point in burning bridges."

"To be honest, now that I've got a little more perspective, I get it. In spite of the fact Clint and I rarely see eye to eye, I can't fault the man for wanting to error on the side of caution by trying to keep any fall out from the suit as faraway as possible from the DA's office. After Jack told me about his conversation with Michael I called him. Things are pretty much smoothed over. We're going to talk again early next week after the depositions have been taken . Clint's problem is he's a better at making speeches than he is dealing with people one on one. Then, of course, Michael's got to back up him up."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one running interference between Clint and Judge Ellis."

Prescott nodded as the bartender inquired as to whether they wanted another round.

"Know when I say, better you than me, that I'm with you in spirit, "she said sardonically. "I feel your pain. You do have time for one more?'

"Sure. I don't have to be at the club until nine. Instead of champagne make it a vodka tonic. How about your Brooke?'

"Midori and soda"

Cohen raised his eyebrows.

"What happened to your attempt to become the tequila drinking champion of the world?"

"I need to prepare for my deposition Monday," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "Do you remember Ben Stone?"

"Shambala Green's husband? Law professor at Hudson University?"

"NYU. Ben's offered to represent me. We're meeting with Harold Chase Saturday morning to get ready for the deposition," Prescott said as the bartender returned with their drinks.

"You're wise to bring in someone with Stone's background. I know people that have taken his civil litigation classes. They say he was the best professor they had. He's got a reputation as being tough but knowledgeable. You couple his grasp of the code with his background as a prosecutor and Stone should be able to handle whatever the other side throws at you. Since you're bringing in someone from Manhattan, I take it change of venue is more than possible?"

"More like a certainty. Harold told me the papers have already been filed. I told him there's no point in fighting it. Chances are we'll end up here or Westchester. Although with Gorton and Steinhart's offices here, as well as a key witness, my money is on Manhattan."

"Enough about me," Prescott said firmly. "Let's delve into something more interesting. Tell me about this new guy - the one you left me a message about. Disposable pleasure or worthwhile pursuit?"

"Who you do think you're talking to Prescott, 007," Cohen said with a chuckle.

"It's your own fault. You're the one that dragged me to see _Casino Royale _three times - now answer the question."

Cohen started to reply as two women filled the empty stools beside him.

"Disposable pleasure, sadly. You know those broker types Brooke, they start out wining and dining you but after they get you into bed, all they want to do is try to sell you investment accounts. Why can't I find a guy with the whole package - brains, bucks, and a tight ass?"

"Geez Cohen," Prescott said laughing at his dramatic finish. "get in line."

"Don't give me that Brooke - you're the one that landed the most eligible bachelor in the five boroughs."

Prescott was about the respond when the woman beside Cohen turned to them.

"Brooke? I thought I heard your voice."

"Connie," Prescott said acknowledging the two women beside Cohen. "Kelley, hi."

"Hi yourself," Gaffney replied giving Cohen a warm smile. "If Connie and I had known you were going to be around for a bit, we'd have invited you to join us for a drink."

"Ladies, I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Cohen said extending his hand. "Jake Cohen. I'm Brooke's right hand back in Suffolk county. Connie? Would you be the same Connie I spoke to during the Hawthorne case?"

As introductions were exchanged, Rubirosa discreetly appraised Cohen.

"You're a long way from home Mr. Cohen. What brings you to Manhattan," Rubirosa asked coolly.

"Jake, please - I'm attending The Effect of Repeat Offenders on the Criminal Justice System seminar at Rockefeller Center, since Wonder Woman here isn't available."

"Sorry Jake ,but your loss has been our gain," Gaffney said." Brooke's been a real life saver this week. The least I can do is buy you both a drink. Unless you two have someplace you need to be?"

Cohen consulted his watch.

"I have some time. Brooke?"

"I've got nothing but time," Prescott replied. "I see a booth that just opened up. What do you say we grab it?"

As the group settled in to the booth the cocktail waitress came over. As the group placed their order, Rubirosa seemed to hesitate.

"You know," Rubirosa said with forced nonchalance, "maybe we should have ordered a scotch rocks for Jack. I assume he'll be joining us?"

Prescott and Cohen exchanged amused looks as the reason for Rubirosa's chilly manner became apparent.

"Jack's on his way to see his daughter in Maine, Connie. That's why he left for the day right after the Task Force meeting."

Cohen nodded, putting his arm around Prescott as he kissed her on the neck.

"That means I'll have Brooke all to myself, well at least until I head over to _The Townhouse_."

Gaffney choked on her drink as Rubirosa's face took on a perplexed look.

"They have a great piano bar there," Cohen continued. "have either of you ladies been there?"

"The club on East 58th - between 2nd and 3rd Streets," Rubirosa asked cautiously. "I thought that was a gay club."

"You thought right counselor," Cohen said grinning.

"Well thank God," Rubirosa said bluntly. "Sorry I was so stand offish, Jake. This week Jack has been more laid-back than in the whole time I was his assistant. I don't want to see _any _thing get in the way of that."

"Well I am flattered you seem to think I had something to do with that," Prescott said seriously. "We're both scheduled for depositions Monday. Between Neal Gorton and his feelings about Ben Stone, that laid back persona may be short lived."


	10. Portland: Jack & Becky

"Dad," Rebecca McCoy repeated, this time with a slightly more urgency.

McCoy turned away from the window and back to the expectant face across from him.

"I'm sorry honey," he said startled back to the reality of the bustling Starbucks across the street from his daughter's third floor walk up. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'how about more coffee'?"

McCoy shook his head and began to reply when Rebecca stood, grabbing the brown leather jacket off the back of her chair.

"Okay, then let's take a walk."

McCoy followed her out of the shop towards the park.

"Spill it."

McCoy shook his head, once again startled by his daughters words.

"I don't know what-"

"Dad, something's on your mind," the young woman said flatly. "I noticed it last night. Even though you drove five hours, you were wired when you got here. I think we'd still be playing poker if I hadn't called it quits at two thirty."

"I think you're just sorry you quit before you had a chance to try to win back some of your money."

"I think you're trying to avoid telling me what's going on with you."

"Are you saying something's wrong because the old man didn't drink his warm milk and put the lights out at dusk?"

Rebecca motioned towards an empty bench as she snickered.

"When your night cap goes from scotch to milk - that's when I'll be in a panic. Actually, it's not so much that something's wrong, just on your mind. I didn't hear you get up last night - you seem to be sleeping much better than when I saw you last. That's a sign to me that you're more relaxed. Which is good-"

"I seem to have been a bundle of nerves ," he teased. "You're the second person to say that."

"Who was the first?"

"Connie. Yesterday. If I'm so 'relaxed', what makes you think something's on my mind? "

Becky laughed at her father's quizzical expression.

"You keep checking your watch and you didn't hear half of what I said at breakfast. It's like….,"she started, pausing as she tried to find the right words to verbalize what she was feeling. "It's like you're waiting for something…or someone. That's it - you're waiting to hear from Brooke aren't you?"

"Actually, I am," he replied amused. "Looks like you have more of your Grandfather in you than I imaged. All that money wasted on law school, when it's clear your real calling is police officier. Better yet, detective."

"All right, wise guy, I'll cut to the chase and just ask you: Does some of this have to do with taking your relationship with Brooke to the next level? "

"Meaning?"

"Are things still good between you two, now that you're sleeping with her?"

McCoy's head snapped towards his daughter as the ball a group of children had been playing four square with landed at his feet. Rebecca reached passed her stunned father and threw it back to the group of children, fighting the urge to laugh at the perplexed look on his face.

"Dad - it wasn't hard to figure out," she said gently. "I was surprised she wasn't with you when you arrived last night."

"She said it was too soon," he admitted as he tried to regain his composure. " She wanted to give you and me some time alone. What exactly do you mean 'it wasn't hard to figure out'?"

"When you didn't call Thursday night…well, I mean Dad ..Gee, she'd been staying with you and it was obvious when I met her that there was something going on between you two. When you didn't make your nightly call, I figured…anyway, why don't you just call her now?"

"She's meeting with Ben Stone this morning."

Rebecca shot her father a look. Ben Stone._ That_ was a name she hadn't heard in a long time.

"Why?"

As McCoy explained, Rebecca could see her father struggling to maintain his nonchalant facade.

Even though she'd been in her mid teens then, she remembered Claire Kincaid's funeral. She had insisted on going, in spite of her mother's concerns. Becky had become attached to the young woman who helped bridge the gap between herself and her parents. Because her father was almost incoherent with grief, her mother reluctantly took her. They had sat with her father who was too distraught to do more than stare unbelievingly at the casket the whole time.

The only time that stare had wavered was during Ben Stone's part of the eulogy. She remembered looking up at her father as Stone spoke of the 'sudden and _needless_ death of a young woman full of promise. Someone who had touched so many lives, so many hearts, that _fate had needlessly cheated out of the happy life she had deserve to have'_ and seeing the unwavering glare exchanged by the two men.

Although her father prided himself on keeping his emotions in check especially around his daughter - as part of his desire to never become anyone even remotely like his own father - Rebecca McCoy had occasionally seen her father's temper during the divorce. Claire Kincaid's funeral was the only time she saw the look that was exchanged by her father with Ben Stone. It was a look of utter defeat, the look of a man who had been broken, with no excuse to give, no way to make things right.

Rebecca knew Ben Stone was the only person who could elicit such a response from her father.

"I suppose that means you'll be dealing with Mr. Stone, as well," she asked carefully.

" It's Professor Stone now. If this gets to trial, I assume I'll be on the witness list for both the plaintiff and defense. Ben may prepare me to testify."

"And you're all right with that?"

McCoy shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll deal with it," he said standing. "Right now I'm more concerned with doing whatever will help Brooke to get through that deposition with out verbally shooting herself in the foot."

Rebecca walked beside her father as he headed back to the path that led towards the lake.

"Why? I mean she's an ADA, Dad. She knows how this stuff works. Besides, she's in the right. She saw this woman point gun at you…"

"Brooke is in better shape than she was. But she still isn't convinced she did the right thing. If her doubts come out in the deposition it's going to be like blood in the water for a shark like Neal Gorton."

Rebecca stopped suddenly and looked up at her father expectantly.

"Maybe you should talk to Brooke about seeing Dr. Olivet. That seemed to help you after the shooting."

"She's determined not to talk about it. She was adamant. No way is she talking to anyone about this - including a psychologist. She barely spoke to me about it. Doesn't want anything on the record that can be used at trial. Which would make sense if she wasn't so ready to incriminate herself. The few times she slipped and said something to me… if I were in Gorton's shoes I'd use her guilt to twist her words - to crucify her on the stand. I've used less when I was in the courtroom."

"But Dad, what she says to Dr. Olivet falls under privileged communication."

"Becky, you have no idea how stubborn that woman can be when she sets her mind to something," McCoy said as he thought about the events of Thursday night. "She doesn't take 'no ' for an answer. I'd count on her being equally inflexible when she _doesn't _want to do something."

Rebecca studied her fathers face carefully smiling to herself at his amused expression.

"You really like this one, don't you Dad?"

"'This one'? " McCoy sputtered.

"You know what I mean."

McCoy looked down at his shoes shaking his head.

"I thought we agreed not to discuss each others private lives after my last marriage."

Rebecca made a face.

"The wicked witch is dead - or at least out of our lives," she countered. "Besides, Brooke isn't Denise. At least step- mommy number two saved your life. That's gives her some brownie points-"

"'Step- mommy number two'? Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves young lady? One more failed marriage and there won't be much left for you to inherit from the old man, much less any pension left for me to live on in a few years."

Rebecca sat down on a patch of grass a few feet from the shore of the man-made lake. She waited for her father to join her before responding.

"So what are you two planning to do," she asked doing her best 'indignant father' imitation. "Just going to shack up, are you?"

"Rebecca Eileen McCoy," he said sternly." That's no way to talk to your father!"

McCoy stared out at the water, watching the dock area as the first few sailboats began to fill the water. After a silence that seemed to last several minutes, he looked over at his daughter, who wore an equally indifferent expression.

"Yes, I like this one a lot," he said at last as he returned to his daughter's original question. His daughter turned to him, her expression softening as she returned her father's sly smile. "I'm just not sure how long this one's going to put up with me. Believe it or not daughter, some people find me hard to tolerate. They stop talking to me for years because I'm so 'rigid and unforgiving'. I believe those were the words you used."

"That only happens with willful brats that are too young to know better," she said as she squeezed her father's hand. "I suspect Brooke is well passed that stage in her life. Just don't …well, Dad you have this way of pushing people away when they start to get close. Don't use Ben Stone's involvement as a way to put up walls between you two."


	11. Fatherhood Ben & Jack

"Christ," the barely audible word was muttered as Brooke Prescott dropped the mascara brush in frustration as she reached for a Q-tip. For the third time, she carefully wiped her brow bone to remove another dark smudge.

Tossing the used Q-Tip in the trash, she stepped back a step from the bathroom mirror and critically appraised her appearance. The dark auburn hair was neatly pulled away from her face, secured by a black ribbon. The of the black and white striped blouse was correctly fastened and neatly tucked under the waistband of the black crepe skirt.

"Well at least I can still manage to dress myself," she said aloud as she reached for the discarded brush.

As she steadied her hand, she heard McCoy's voice on the other side of the bathroom door informing her that Ben Stone was on his way up.

_Just relax, _she told herself_. It's a disposition. You've been to hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Nothing new…just keep your answers short and to the point, just like Ben and Harold said… Don't volunteer anything - make Gorton's associates work for whatever they get…if you want to keep the damn mascara out of you eyes, think of something else….besides the next murder that's going to take place if you don't move your ass and get out there before Ben and Jack have a chance to kill each other…._

McCoy put down the morning paper upon hearing a knock on the door. Unconsciously running a hand down his tie, he moved to answer the door. Once the usual pleasantries were exchanged Ben Stone followed McCoy towards the kitchen.

"Brooke knows you're here, she'll be out in a minute. I hear you'll be handling the deposition this morning," McCoy said tightly.

"Any objections to that counselor,"Stone demanded.

"More than I can count," McCoy said bluntly. "but I've already been over ruled. You preped her Saturday. You know her state of mind. What I want to know is how big a liability do you think she is to herself and what are you going to do about it?"

"She'd be less of a liability if you could convince her to talk to Liz Olivet," Stone said with equal canidor. "I can steer her away from the verbal minefields in a deposition, but when we get to court it'll be a different story. Especially in a civil matter. You're the man in her life, you obviously have a great deal of influence over her. If you care about her as much as she seems to think you do, you need to convince her to deal with her guilt before we get in front of a jury."

"Don't you think I've tried," McCoy said sharply, as he picked up two mugs off the drain board. "You know Brooke, she's not someone that gives in easily."

"I know _you_,"Stone countered. "This is important, Jack. You managed to get her into your bed, getting her on to Liz's couch shouldn't be too difficult for you."

"If Brooke wasn't in the next room, I'd knock you on your sanctimonious ass."

Stone shrugged his shoulders.

"Sir, if you really think that would solve anything, you're welcome to try," Stone replied unintimidated, any promises made to his wife about maintaining his distance from Jack McCoy, long forgotten. "At the moment, it seems that we're in agreement. For the time being we need to focus on Brooke; not our personal differences."

McCoy nodded in agreement as he reached for the coffee pot.

"Coffee," McCoy gruffly asked. Stone nodded while he took a seat at the kitchen counter. "Still black?"

"Yes, thanks," Stone said stiffly, while reaching for the mug in front of him. Stone glanced at the cup, doing a double take.Slowly a smile formed on his lips, as he studied the cartoon figure of the suit clad man holding a martini in one hand, while he used the other hand to steady himself on a bar, the caption reading: _Lawyers do it before the bar. _

"Let me guess. Christmas gift from your daughter?"

McCoy peered down at the mug, his lips turning up ward as well.

"Birthday. I take it you've received one yourself?"

"Shambala helped our daughter find one for me last Christmas," Stone answered.

"I hope you have better luck the second time around than I did," McCoy said with unexpected sincerity. "Congratulations on becoming a father again. How old is your daughter?"

As the two men proceeded to discuss their children, their natural distrust gave way momentarily to the camaraderie of fatherhood. By the time Prescott joined them they had exchanged wallets, and were eyeing snapshots of each others offspriing.

"Now _this _is something worth having a picure of," Prescott said, placing a hand on McCoy's shoulder as she slipped by him to refill her coffee cup. "Ben, are those recent pictures of your daughters?"

"Taken last month," he said as McCoy handed her the wallet. "Any last minute questions before we head over to Gorton and Steinhart?"

Prescott shook her head as she returned the wallet to Stone.

"Gosh Ben, those girls just get more beautiful each time I see them," she said as she turned to McCoy. "I think I'm ready. Jack, try not to worry much."

"I'd worry less if you'd reconsider and let me come with you. Tracey can handle-"

"We agreed last night, you're presence would send Gorton's people the wrong message,"she said quietly."It's bad enough your Monday afternoon has to be disrupted by your own deposition. I can think of something else you _can_ do. How about giving me a kiss for luck?"

"As if you even have to ask,"he said softly as he took her in his arms. A burst of laughter to escaped from her lips, as he playfully bent her back causing her to clutch his shoulders, as he kissed her.

"Why Mr. McCoy, you certainly know how take a woman's mind off her troubles,"she said breathlessly, as McCoy brought her back to a standing position.

McCoy shrugged his shoulders, grinning sheepishly.

"I do what I can,"he said modestlly.

"Brooke, it's almost nine," Stone said as he stood. "We better get going."

"Fine," she said as she looked around the room. "I left my jacket in the bedroom - give me just a second, Ben."

As Prescott turned the corner McCoy lean close to Stone.

"Attorney client privilege be damned. I can't help her if I don't know how bad things are Ben," McCoy said bluntly. "I'll find away to get her to Olivet - just call me after the deposition and give me the real story."

Stone sighed, slowly nodding in agreement.


	12. Prescott's Deposition

The room looked more like a sitting room of a suite in one of Manhattan's five star hotels, instead of a conference room in a Manhattan law office. The drapes and wallpaper reflected expense that was unheard of in the DA's office, as did the display of artwork and fine antique furniture.

"You're sure I can't have my girl get you something Mrs. Prescott," Neal Gorton asked with uncharacteristic civility that both Prescott and Stone found worrisome " Espresso, cappuccino…?"

"Thank you, no," she said surveying the room. "I must say I am surprised that a senior partner has time to sit in on a routine deposition."

"Being that my client came all the way from Montana to resolve this matter, I've chosen to take an active role in this case," Gorton explained. "I believe we are ready to begin. Mrs. Prescott for the record would you a state your full name, address, and employer?"

Prescott responded accordingly.

"I apologize," Gorton said smoothly. "Perhaps I wasn't clear. Please state your _current_ address."

Prescott looked at Stone, who in turned looked quizzically at Gorton.

"Mr. Gorton, my client is a resident of Suffolk county. Her living arrangements in Manhattan are temporary, which makes them irrelevant with regards to this proceeding. In fact, she'll be returning to Islip within the week."

Gorton lips hinted at a smile.

"This is correct, Mr. Stone. However, since we are all expecting the venue to be changed to Manhattan, it is imperative that this office is able to contact your client in a timely manner, hence the need have information regarding her whereabluts in Manhattan."

"Sir, will contact Mrs. Prescott through me regarding anything connected with this lawsuit, if the venue is changed to Manhattan," Stone said evenly. "Either ask a different question or I'm advising my client to end this interview."

"Fine," Gorton conceded. "Mrs. Prescott, please take us through the events of the afternoon of July 5th 2007, beginning with your reasons for arriving at the residence at 17 Beachwood Drive in Ocean Beach New York."

"I was bringing a fax from the NYPD to Mr. McCoy regarding the murder of Diana Hawthorne."

"Let the record show you are indeed referring to the District Attorney for New York county, one John James McCoy, correct?"

"Yes," she said meeting Stone knowing glance.

"This was a Saturday afternoon - a holiday weekend. Why didn't you call Mr. McCoy or have the fax messengered to Mr. McCoy, as opposed to making the hour long trip from Islip to Ocean Beach?"

"Because I had other matters to discuss with Mr. McCoy," she said keeping her tone neutral, as she became conscious of where Gorton was headed. "We had a disagreement earlier in the day, regarding prosecution strategies in the Weaver case. I also owed Mr. McCoy money from a wager made the night before."

Gorton pulled a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, putting them on as he thumbed through the file in front of him. Nodding he looked up from the pages.

"Yes, I see. You're referring to the wager made at the Running of the Pines event on July the fourth of this year?"

"Yes."

"I want to get back to that in a moment. For now, let's continue with the events of July fifth. Please take us through the events that occurred when you arrived at the McCoy residence."

"When I arrived, I rang the door bell several times. I noticed Mr. McCoy's motorcycle was on the drive way. I found it curious that he hadn't answered the door. As I placed the fax in his mail box, I noticed the security camera above the front door did not appear to be working. I suspected Mr. McCoy might have an intruder in his home. I returned to my car, drove around the corner and parked my car. I placed a 911 call to the Suffolk county sheriff's office, at which time I stated-"

Gorton held up hand .

"I have the 911 tape, Mrs. Prescott. Sufficed to say you stated your concern and requested that the dispatcher send an officer to investigate?"

"Yes."

"Yet you returned to the McCoy residence?"

"The dispatcher informed me that there had been a riot at the Forth of July festivities, that the response time could be delayed as much as an hour. I was concerned as to what could transpire in that amount of time, so I returned to the McCoy residence on foot, through the back alley.

"When I arrived, I remembered Ms. Hawthorne stating where Mr. McCoy left a spare key to the house. I took the key and came in through the back door. When I walked into the living room, I found Mr. McCoy and Ms. Weaver near the front window. They were struggling for control of the gun. Before she fell backward, Ms. Weaver's gun fired. She had the gun in her hand when she got up, I told her to drop her weapon. Instead she raised her weapon."

"At what point did you draw your weapon?"

"I entered the house with my weapon drawn - a Browning nine millimeter."

Gorton nodded as he scribbled on the yellow legal pad in front of him.

"Please, continue."

"Ms. Weaver raised her weapon, I told her once more to drop her weapon or I would shoot. She pointed her weapon at Mr. McCoy. She pulled the hammer back on her weapon and I fired."

Gorton nodded, not looking up from the legal pad.

"How many times did you fire your gun?"

"I emptied the clip."

"How many bullets does a clip contain for a Browning nine milimeter?"

"Fourteen," Prescott replied placing her hands together, trying to prevent Gorton from noticing her trembling fingers.

"How many bullets were dug out of Ms. Weaver's body ?"

"Don't answer that," Stone injected. "Mr. Gorton can obtain that information from the ballistics report."

"I believe the number is three," Gorton said unruffled. "Two in the head, one in the chest, is that right?"

"If you say so," Prescott said softly. "I haven't seen the report."

"Tell me Mrs. Prescott, why continue firing after you clearly had incapacitated Ms. Weaver?"

"When I had occasion to begin carrying a gun, I was trained in the use of fire arms by the members of the Drug Enforcement Agency. I was trained to shoot to kill, as well as to continue firing until all ammunition had been discharged."

Gorton leaned on the tabletop, his eyes keenly fixed on Prescott.

"You received training from the DEA in the use of fire arms - that is highly unusual. Why was that?"

"Mr. Gorton," Stone said with a frown. "Mrs. Prescott's statement to the police clearly outlines the events that led to her acquiring a firearm."

"Correct again, counselor," Gorton replied undaunted. "I realize reliving the death of your husband is painful, Mrs. Prescott. However, in order to understand what appears to be the excessive force used, there are questions about that matter I need to ask. Are you sure I can't get you something to drink - maybe a glass of water - before we continue?"

_Nice try_, she thought, well aware of the trick she'd used herself to determine just how rattled a suspect was. Although her throat felt like the Mojave desert, the last thing she wanted to do was reveal her shaking hands to Gorton.

"No."

Prescott continued to hold his gaze while she carefully slid her unsteady hands off the table and onto her equally shaky knees.

"The defendant stipulates for the record, that Mrs. Prescott acquired her training in fire arms from the DEA shortly after witnessing the death of her husband by assassins that were found to be members of the Russian Mafia," Stone said shortly. "That should answer what ever questions-"

"So it would be fair to say that Mrs. Prescott was trained in the use of firearms against the assassins from the criminal underworld?"

"It would be accurate to say Mrs. Prescott received training in using a firearm for self defense that could be used in a variety of circumstances, involving an armed assailant," Stone countered.

"Mrs. Prescott, after you emptied your weapon what did you do next?"

Prescott closed her eyes remembering the sound of the bullets shattering the window, shattering Samantha Weaver…the thud of her gun hitting the wood floor… McCoy's stricken expression…

"I remember dropping my weapon on the floor, then I collapsed. The next thing I remember is being taken to the emergency room at Bayview Hospital in Ocean Beach."

"So, as far as you recall, you made no attempt to call for medical assistance for Ms. Weaver?"

"My client just said she collapsed," Stone interjected.

Gorton raised his hand slightly bowing to Stone.

"Mrs. Prescott, in the time between Ms. Weaver's being shot and your 'collapse', did either you or Mr. McCoy make any effort to provide medical assistance to Ms. Weaver or did you assume what was left of her after being shot at fourteen times wasn't worth the trouble?"


	13. Ross & McCoy v Gorton & Steinhart

I_ had planned this chapter a bit differently, however a question from Lynn caused me to rethink it. The question was "Who is Jack's counsel for the deposition?" That opened up some fun ideas I hadn't considered. Thanks Lynn, for your inspiration!_

"Jamie this really isn't necessary," Jack McCoy said impatiently. "I'm not the defendant and even if I was, I can handle myself in a deposition. I'm not intimidated by Neal Gorton."

Judge Jamie Ross shook her head as she turned her attention from her cup of cappuccino and to the man impatiently pacing Gorton and Steinhart's conference room. Almost an hour before, the pair had been lunching at Petra's, when McCoy received the call from Ben Stone. Ross could tell from McCoy's end of the conversation - his tone, his clinched fist, his expression of pure disgust - that the news was not good.

"That vindictive son of a bitch has no shame," McCoy had declared as he snapped his cell phone shut.

"I assume were talking about my ex husband," Ross said with a smirk. "Tell me something I don't already know. What's Neal done this time?"

"He's going to use Brooke to come after me. Ben Stone said Gorton kept pressing Brooke druing her deposition on the circumstances of Sam Prescott's death and Brooke's involvement with me. Ben is certain Gorton's going to build his case on the premise the shooting was about a lovers triangle, not self defense."

"That's insane," Ross blurted out. "No jury is going buy that, especially given Weaver's history. The fact the police had solid evidence she was responsible for the deaths of two people, in addition to the fact she was laying in wait for you in your home with a loaded gun, should be more than enough to derail that theory."

"Insane or not, I wouldn't put it past your ex husband," he said shortly. "It's been years since the Eddie Newman case and Gorton is still looking for pay back. My God Jamie, Brooke could lose everything. Her house, her license to practice law…if Gorton convinces a civil court this was anything but a justifiable homicide, she could end up being charged in criminal court!"

"Jack, it won't go that far," Ross said reassuringly. "Neal might want to play games and make things difficult for you, but he'll do what's best for his client in the end. He'll approach Ben with a settlement offer before trial-"

"That Brooke will consider an admission of guilt," he countered, slamming his fist onto the table. "and she'd be right. I wouldn't agree to a settlement - would you? "

"This lawsuit's really getting to you, isn't it?"

"How could it not? Jamie, I'm sitting here now because Brooke shot Samnatha Weaver. In essence, Brooke could lose everything she's worked for because of me."

In the time Ross known Jack McCoy she'd seen him upset, even angry. No matter how aggravated he'd been, she'd never seen McCoy lose control. This time was different.

"You have a half an hour before your deposition, Jack. If you walk in there like this, Neal's going to eat you alive."

McCoy set his jaw, his eyes narrowing.

"I'll deal with Neal Gorton."

On the pretense of sharing a cab uptown, Ross had stayed with him. By the time they had reached the offices of Gorton and Steinhart, she was certain McCoy facing Neal Gorton without counsel of his own would be a fatal mistake.

"You're not a defendant yet," Ross said shrewdly. "that won't remain the case if I leave you alone with Neal."

McCoy snorted shaking his head.

"I'm not stupid, Jamie. I'm not going lay a finger on him, not with the stenographer sitting there. Besides, don't you have a case to hear?"

"Not today," Ross replied lightly. "The prosecution asked for twenty four hours to review new evidence presented by defense counsel this morning. I granted the request, so my afternoon is open."

"I wish I could say the same," McCoy said looking at his watch. "I have a meeting with the Mayor at 3:30. It's almost two now - we've been here a half hour - where the hell is Gorton?"

"It's strategy, Jack. He wants to keep you off balance. He'll be here any minute. Relax, come sit down."

"I'm fine."

"If he thinks he's got you pacing, he's going to count that as a win," Ross said confidently.

She looked down at her cup, smiling to herself as McCoy grudgingly sat beside her. Just as McCoy turned to Ross, the door opened. Neal Gorton tried unsuccessfully to hide his astonishment upon seeing his ex wife sitting beside McCoy.

"Neal," Ross said smiling brightly.

"Jamie," Gorton replied as the stenographer moved past him to begin setting up her equipment. "I didn't realize you were in such dire straits since the alimony stopped. Trying cases _and _practicing law?"

"I had some free time this afternoon. I thought it might be interesting to see what new tricks you've learned since the Newman case," Ross retorted, enjoying the slight flinch Gorton gave at the mention of the case he had lost to Ross and McCoy years before.

"So you're here to observe?"

"I'm here to keep you in line - I am acting as opposing counsel in this matter."

Gorton smiled a humorless smile. After making a dismissive gesture, he sat down across from McCoy.

"Do what you like," he said causally. "I'm sure Mr. McCoy is anxious to get started - sorry I kept you waiting so long. It was unavoidable. Service at _The_ _Twenty One Club_ is abominable these days. Can I have my girl get you anything before we get started?"

"Let's get to it, shall we? I'm pressed for time Mr. Gorton."

"As you wish, Mr. McCoy. For the record please state your full name, address, and employer."

McCoy replied with the required information, continuing to answer a series of questions that led him to the day of Samantha Weaver's death.

"So, you're saying that after your interview with Ms. Weaver, Mrs. Prescott and yourself proceeded to _Teller's Chophouse_ in Islip for a working lunch?"

"That's right, yes."

"According to the waiter it was a very short lived lunch," Gorton said looking up from the file in front of him. "Why was that Mr. McCoy?"

"Mrs. Prescott and I had a disagreement regarding strategies used during Ms. Weaver's interview that morning."

"Can you elaborate on the specifics of that disagreement?"

"Don't answer that," Ross interjected. "I don't see how that information is relevant to your wrongful death charge."

"I'm just trying to get an idea of Mrs. Prescott's state of mind prior to the murder-"

"There was no murder," McCoy snapped. "The woman told me she was going to kill me."

"Be that as it may," Gorton continued. "I'm trying to ascertain Mrs. Prescott's state of mind that day."

"Ascertain it at trial," Ross said bluntly. "They disagreed, Mrs. Prescott left the restaurant. Move along, counselor."

Gorton sighed once again making a note inside the file.

"Fine. What did you do after Mrs. Prescott left the restaurant?"

"I paid the bill and caught the next ferry for Ocean Beach. Once the ferry landed, I returned to the parking lot and went home. It was just after 3:30 when I arrived."

"What happened next," Gorton asked nodding.

"I listened to my messages, had a drink and went into the bedroom. I found Samantha Weaver in the bedroom pointing a gun at me. She told me to sit down on the bed, which I did. After that, Ms. Weaver proceeded to tell me about her plans to kill me."

"Her exact words being, Mr. McCoy?"

"That her troubles began with my prosecution of her in the Dillon case, that she would take great pleasure in killing me."

" 'Great pleasure'," Gorton repeated looking up from his notes. "Were those her exact words Mr. McCoy?"

McCoy looked downward, trying not to let the annoyance he felt show. When he looked back at Gorton his face showed no sign of emotion.

"Her exact words were 'I'll enjoy putting a bullet in that thick head of yours, much more than I enjoyed sleeping with you'."

"No doubt the sentiments shared by numerous women in Manhattan," Gorton said under his breath.

"I want that remark kept on the record," Ross snapped turning to the stenographer. "Do you have a question Neal, or just more unprofessional banter to provoke my client with?"

"I apologize, Mr. McCoy," Gorton said triumphantly. "Now, based on your last statement, it would be fair to say you and Ms. Weaver had a sexual relationship?"

"Ms. Weaver initiated contact with me the day she was released from prison. We slept together once, which I learned later was part of a conspiracy-"

"Please, stick to the questions that are asked," Gorton said sitting back in his chair. "So again, it would be accurate to say you had a sexual relationship with Samantha Weaver?"

"Briefly."

"Did you have a similar relationship with Brooke Prescott?"

"No."

"Really," Gorton said intently. "are you sure about that, Mr. McCoy?"

"Asked and answered," Ross snapped seeing McCoy jaw set. "Are we here to talk about Samantha Weaver's death or to satisfy your fetish for voyeurism, Neal?"

"Were here in search of the truth," Gorton said patronizingly. "Not much different than when you were in the DA's office, Jamie. Now that the roles are reversed, I'm beginning to see why you found being a prosecutor so…rewarding."

"You're really enjoying this aren't you," McCoy said contemptuously. "Using a innocent woman to get to me-"

"Jack-"

"No, Jamie, let him talk," Gorton said smugly. "If Mr. McCoy has something he'd like to say, I'd be more than happy to hear it."


	14. Dinner at Gino's: Olivet

When the elevator doors opened McCoy could hear the faint sound of fingers furiously tapping on a keyboard. He rested his charcoal suit jacket on his shoulder and followed the sound passed several darkened offices in the Robbery/Homicide Bureau of the District Attorney's office.

"I have people that are actually on the pay roll that don't put in this many hours," he said approvingly. "Maybe I _should _try to steal you away from Michael Jackowicz, after all."

Prescott looked up from the computer screen, pushing her chair back from the desk.

"Just trying to earn my keep," she said wearily. "Dare I ask how your day was?"

McCoy sighed, as he set his jacket and satchel on a chair, coming around to Prescott's side of the desk.

"Probably about as miserable as yours was," he said as he began massaging her shoulders. "You almost finished here?"

"Yeah, just give me another five or ten minutes. I promised Kellie I'd finish this before I went back to Islip," she said as she leaned against the hand that had found had it's way to the area between her shoulders and her neck. "Oh, God that feels good."

"Here, lean back a minute - you're really tense right in there. Back to Islip? I take it you've heard from your boss?"

"Michael called his afternoon. Apparently the police investigation into Samantha Weaver's death is complete. Word has it the board of inquiry is leaning towards ruling it as a justifiable homicide."

"That's good news, Brooke. That would rule out any chance of this becoming a criminal matter."

"It also takes some of the heat off of Michael. The report should be out in the next few days. Looks like I might have a job again before the end of the week, which means I need to get back home soon," she said with a sigh. "Humm, you ever get tired of the law, you might consider a career as a masseur.Your fingers possess secrets talents."

McCoy laughed softly as he took the chair by its arms, turning it so that Prescott faced him.

"I prefer to share those talents with only a select few," he whispered as he leaned down to kiss her.

Prescott responded by wrapping her arms around him as she returned his kiss, minutes passed as they leisurely explored each others mouths. Finally, as a low moan escaped from her lips, Prescott breathlessly pulled back.

"If you want to get out of here anytime soon, maybe you better take a seat over there while I finish up," she said as she moved her chair towards the desk.

McCoy obliged, picking up a completed brief off of the desk. By the time he finished reading the document, Prescott had stopped typing and in the process of shutting the computer down.

"As through as this is, you must be anxious to get back into a courtroom. When are you planing on going back to Islip?"

"Cohen finishes his conference Thursday. I figured we could take the train back together. That would give him a chance to bring me up to speed on pending cases, unless something changes with the lawsuit before then," she replied. " How much did Ben tell you about this morning?"

"What makes you think I've spoken to Ben?"

"The fact you haven't asked about this morning tells me you already know, at least the high points."

"He told me enough to confirm what I all ready knew: Neal Gorton is a son of a bitch."

Prescott chuckled.

"Sounds like your deposition was fun as well."

"Only because Jamie was there," McCoy quiped.

Prescott listened with growing amusement as McCoy recounted Ross's role in the meeting.

"Jamie Ross and Neal Gorton," she mused. "How did Gorton ever land such a class act in the first place?"

McCoy shrugged his shoulders.

"A better question is once he had her, how could he be foolish enough to lose her because of a wandering eye?

Prescott rested her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands as she eyed him curiously.

"Am I to assume that wasn't the case in either of your marriages?"

McCoy shook his head, his eyebrows raised slightly.

"Hardly. First time we grew apart, wanted different things. Last time - I seem to remember telling you about Denise - too soon after losing Claire. I just didn't have enough to give a marriage. Of course, the fact I was never home didn't help either relationship. You ready to grab something to eat," he asked changing the subject.

"Sounds good," she said as she stood up. "What are you up for tonight?"

"I remember you mentioning you like Italian. There's a place around the corner that I think you'd enjoy," McCoy said as they started down the hall way.

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The bisto was almost deserted when McCoy led Prescott towards the back of the restrauant, away from the few patrons who were finishing their meals. McCoy checked his watch, as the waiter handed them their menu's, before leaving to fill their drink orders.

"Jack, are you waiting for a call? That's the third time I've seen you check your watch since we left the office?"

"No, I'm not waiting for a call," he said firmly turning his attention to the menu. "If you like minestrone, they do a nice job here."

Prescott looked at him puzzled by his lack of explanation. After a few minutes, the waiter appeared with their drinks and she closed her menu.

"Are you ready to order?"

"Jack?"

"I'll be ready in a minute," he said his menu open."You go ahead".

After Prescott ordered, the waiter turned to McCoy, who closed his menu as he picked up his scotch.

"The linguine in pesto sauce dinner and a glass of your house merlot," he said as he stood.

As the waiter turned to leave, an attractive woman in her forties replaced McCoy in the booth, while Prescott looked at the pair quizzically.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Jack. My class ran late tonight," said the woman. "You must be Brooke?"

"Not a problem Liz, I just ordered your linguine," McCoy said meeting Prescott's surprised look. "Brooke, you've heard me mention Liz Olivet. Liz, Brooke Prescott."

By the look in Prescott's eyes, McCoy knew the name had immediately registered with Prescott.

"Doctor," Prescott said cordially as she shot McCoy a dagger look.

"Listen, Brooke. I know how you feel about talking to anyone about the shooting, but it needs to be done. It can't wait. You have every right to be angry and I know you probably want to get up and walk out right now," he said regretfully. "But the simple fact is, until you resolve your feelings about the night Samantha Weaver died, you're a liability to your defense and I can't just sit back and do nothing to try to change that."

"Fine," Prescott said flatly as she reached for her glass of Chianti.

"If you ladies will excuse me, I'll be in the bar," McCoy said with a nod to Olivet.

The waiter returned with the glass of merlot. Olivet peered over the rim at Prescott.

"I did tell Jack this wasn't an ideal way to initiate therapy."

"Is that what this is doctor? Instead of dinner and a movie, we have dinner and analysis," Prescott said making a weak stab at humor. "I'm sorry you came all the way down here for no reason."

"Oh dinner at _Gino's_ is never a wasted trip," Olivet replied. "If you don't want to discuss the shooting, I certainly have no intention of pressing you. But you'd be a fool to waste such a great meal by leaving Jack high and dry to make your point. Stay, eat, then chew him out after dessert."

Prescott smiled as the waiter set their salads down. Once he was assured nothing else was needed, they were alone once more.

"I have to admit I agree - I've read the review of this place in the _Times. _Besides, I understand you've known Jack quite a while. It would serve him right if I turned the tables on him and used this as an opportunity to gain more insight into _his_ life."

Olivet returned the smile, as she began eating the salad.

"I can tell you Jack is very concerned about you're well being, as well as grateful for what you did. He is carrying around his own guilt about that day, guilt at seeing you go through this ordeal because you tried to help him."

"Jack doesn't have anything to feel guilty about. He had no idea Samantha Weaver would come after him. He certainly didn't know I'd show up doing my 'Rambo' imitation," Prescott responded as she moved the salad around on her plate.

"Rambo was a hero, a patriot."

Prescott shook her head.

"Rambo was a lot of flash, over kill - or maybe I'm just not a big fan of Stallone," she joked.

"Brooke, you saved a man's life. Jack wouldn't be here if you'd waited for the police-"

"That's debatable, Doctor."

"I'll make you a deal: You call me Liz and I won't call you 'Madam Prosecutor', Brooke," Olivet said with a smile. "Debatable how?"

Prescott shook her head.

"Are we two acquaintances having dinner, or are we doctor and patient?"

"Do you have a dollar," Olivet asked. She waited as Prescott reached into her clutch and handed her the currency. "We can be whatever you want us to be. In any case, you just paid for a session - sliding scale since you aren't working right now. What is said here stays here - even if Neal Gorton sends me a subpoena."

Prescott chuckled as she drained the remains of her wine.

"I see why Jack likes you so much, Liz. All right. It's debatable because this woman had a history of going to great lengths to have someone else do her killing for her. Even the person closest to her - her lover - didn't think she had it in her to follow through with something like this. Jack was talking her down….if I had just waited, given him more time…"

Olivet nodded in understanding.

"Why didn't you?"

Prescott studied the other woman intently, thankful Olivet hadn't resorted to empty platitudes designed to reassure her, instead of accepting her words at face value.

"I didn't want to take the chance…"she said softly.

"The chance of what?"

Prescott sighed uncomfortably.

"It happened very fast," Prescott said evasively. "Too fast too think about the consequences."

"Like when your husband was shot? I remember reading about it," Olivet added, answering Prescott's inquisitive glance. "It was all over the papers. Federal prosecutor gunned outside the courthouse. Protective detail, court officers, all kinds of law enforcement present and it they were helpless to stop it."

Prescott sent her fork down, signaling to the waiter for another glass of wine as her face paled.

"You have an excellent memory Doc- Liz. No doubt jogged by Jack."

"You must have felt helpless at the time. Is that why you started to carry a gun afterwards?"

"The DEA, the federal marshal - even Sam's boss urged him to carry a gun," she said, her voice barely above whisper. "but he wouldn't hear of it."

"Jack was the same way when he was on Leland Barnes hit list," Olivet interjected.

Prescott nodded.

"Doesn't surprise me. Jack is a lot like Sam - maybe not as soft spoken, but both of them refuse to be intimidated. Carrying a gun would be admitting defeat in their eyes - letting the criminals win. Neither of them would consider losing an option."

"Yet you chose to arm yourself?"

"I suppose the influence any of Sam's stoic machoism had evaporated the night he died," she said taking the glass of wine from the waiter.

" 'Stoic machoism' - that's an interesting way to describe your husband's attitude."

"Accurate none the less."

"So afterwards you felt free to protect yourself?"

"My self," Prescott said shaking her head. "more like those around me. This was the Russian Mafia - I'm sure in your work you've had dealings with these people. They don't stop until they wipe out whole families. My life wasn't worth much to me after Sam died, but my brother and niece's lives were. They were around me constantly. If someone came after me to finish the job, I wanted to be able to protect them."

Olivet nodded, remembering the sessions she'd had with Ben Stone years before, when his witness Anne Madsen had been killed by the Russian mafia to prevent her from testifying. She waited for the waiter to clear their salads and leave the entrée's, departing once more. She glanced at her watch, knowing she didn't have much time left before dinner would be over and, more than likely Prescott would bolt.

"Brooke are you familiar with the term 'survivor's guilt'?"

Prescott snickered.

"Liz, I spoke to several mental health professionals after Sam's shooting," she said as if repeating a well memorized response. "Yes, I know the term. Yes, I showed most of the signs. Yes, I know now it's not my fault Sam got shot."

"But you can't help thinking if you'd had a gun that night things might have turned out differently?"

"I saw the shooter draw his weapon. By the time I had the words out of my mouth, Sam had a bullet in his chest. Of course it would have made a difference, but it's neither here nor there now," she said sharply.

"Those events went through your mind when you shot Samantha Weaver? When you said you didn't want to 'risk it' earlier, you didn't want to risk waiting, giving Weaver the chance to shoot Jack, the way your husband was shot-"

Prescott focused on her breath, which she realized had become shallow as she closed her eyes, trying to compose herself as memories flooded her consciousness.

"I was back on the courthouse steps when I saw that gun in her hand. When she didn't drop the gun... the look in her eyes…," Prescott sighed, licking her lips as a tear started to slowly run down passed her cheek. "she thought I was bluffing. I wasn't sure…I thought she…I knew if I waited it was going to happen again…"

"Brooke, you had no way of knowing whether she would or wouldn't shoot Jack. What else is went-"

"I shot her and I kept shooting, as if she were one of those bastards," Prescott said her tone cracking. "I emptied that gun… but she wasn't an assassin, don't you see? She had eight rounds, _eight _- not the firepower of a AK-47.I didn't have to …. I could have wounded her and Jack would have been safe…."


	15. Three Guys in a Bar:Joe, Ed, Jack

The silence in the cab was deafening. If there was one thing Jack McCoy hated, it was the silent treatment. Given his profession, not to mention his up bringing, words had always been his weapon of choice in times of conflict. Silence was a 'wait it' out proposition and McCoy had never been very good at waiting. It was all he could do to contain himself until the cab pulled away from the front of his building, thus avoiding the possibility of a public scene, before he broke the silence.

"Come on Brooke, it's been twenty minutes. I'd rather you just said whatever it is you want to say and cleared the air."

Prescott fleetingly looked at him, walking passed him, while he held the lobby door open.

"No, Jack," she said shaking her head as she hit the call button for the elevator. "_This _you don't want to hear."

The pair fell into silence once more as two couples exited the elevator car. Once they were alone McCoy turned to her, with the same determination he had when cross examining a hostile witness.

"Damn it Brooke, I'm not in the mood to play games - if you have something to say - let's hear it."

Prescott's eyes widened as she faced him.

"And you call Ben Stone sanctimonious," she sneered. "You have a hell of a lot of nerve, McCoy. A _hell _of a lot of nerve!"

McCoy tried to suppress the beginnings of a smile, knowing the he'd won. Now that they were talking, the hard part was behind him.

"You think that's _funny_," she demanded as the elevator doors opened. "Sanctimonious was the wrong word. Allow me to rephrase. Patronizing - _that's _the word. Something I would have expected from the likes of Neal Gorton, _not_ something I expected from the man whose bed I share!"

"That's crap and you know it," he shot back, cut to the quick by the unexpected comparison. "Neal Gorton manipulates women to suit his own purposes. I did nothing of the kind tonight."

"You set me up, Jack. You tricked me into something you _knew _I didn't want to do. If that's not manipulation, I don't know what is," she said following him into the apartment.

"You left me no choice," he bellowed incredulously, as he dropped his suit jacket and satchel on the sofa. "It was either that or wait for you to incriminate yourself at trial!"

"The end justifys the means," she shouted back. "It wasn't your decision to make."

"Do you _want _to lose everything you've worked for? You saved my life Brooke! I'm not going to apologize for -"

"Damn it Jack, I stop saying that! You make it sound so noble! I _took_ someone's _life_ as well," she said as she stormed passed him and into the guest room.

"Would you prefer it if it had been _me_ that died instead of Samantha Weaver? Would you have rather explained to Rebecca -" he demanded following her.

"Don't be an ass," she hissed. "We are prosecutors, Jack. How many times have you argued some one used excessive force? How many times have you claimed someone had shown reckless disregard for another persons life, to sell the higher count on an inditment? How many times have _I _made those same arguments?"

"For God's sake, Brooke, it's not the same thing," he said turning her to face him.

"Because I'm a prosecutor or because I'm your lover?"

"Because the woman was responsible for the deaths of two people already," he said exasperated. "You can be mad as hell if you want to be, but the fact is you needed to talk to Liz, whether you're willing to admit it or not!"

"Do you need the bathroom? I'd like to take a bath," she demanded as she grabbed the robe off the bed.

McCoy made a sweeping gesture towards the bathroom.

"Knock yourself out - but don't think that I don't know what this is really about."

Prescott swung around to face him. Her jaw set as she silently stared at him waiting for him to drop the other shoe.

"This isn't just about 'taking a life'. It's about dealing with watching someone you loved die."

"Son of a bitch." The phrase came out of Prescott mouth in a barely audiable whisper.

"You don't want to go there, Jack," she cautioned him. "you will regret it."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you yourself have some unresolved issues to deal with," she said as she started passed him.

"Brooke," he said reaching for her arm. " You couldn't have stopped what happened to Sam anymore than you could have changed what happened to Samantha Weaver. Both situations-"

"Take you hand off me, Jack," she said hotly. McCoy abruptly let her arm go, his hands up in mock surrender. "You had no control over the accident that killed Claire Kincaid, but you still carry it with you. It haunted you enough to cost you your second marriage."

Prescott could see the flash of pain cross his face as McCoy abruptly turned on his heel, leaving her in the doorway. Without breaking stride, he reached for his jacket and keys, as he passed throught the living room. Prescott involuntarily jumped as the door slammed behind him.

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_Damn Becky, damn Ben, and damn myself for listening to them_, he thought as he set the drink back on to the bar. Although McCoy really didn't want the drink, he felt obliged to order it when he sat down at the bar. He had been so livid when he stormed out of his apartment, it took him twenty minutes to slow down enough to realize the distance he'd walked on automatic pilot. He was almost to the university. Being so close _Malachy's _it just seemed reasonable to drop in before starting the journey home.

_Malachy's _was an Irish pub - a dive - within walking distance of Columbia University. He'd discovered the place in his college days when he'd hike over from NYU to use Columbia's law library. Although no longer a regular patron, the bartender knew him by name, as did some of the regulars who ranged from college professors to blue collar types to college students grabbing a beer and a bite of _Malachy's_ renowned daily special - corned beef and cabbage - while cramming for an exam. In the years since McCoy was a student the place had remained the same - green walls covered with Bogart posters, old photographs of baseball teams, decorative mirrors with various beer labels featured and an amazing 10,000 song jute box that satisfied the tastes of the all pub's various patrons.

The last thing he'd wanted to do was have a blow out with Brooke Prescott that night. Especially given the fact she would be returning back to Islip before the end of the week. Instead of the pleasant dinner, followed by a night of leisurely love making that he had initially favored, he'd opted for an alternative that he knew had the potential to end with all hell breaking loose. He'd expected Prescott to be angry, offended, even outraged. McCoy had been ready to ride it out, knowing how he himself would have reacted had the positions been reversed, but hadn't anticipated being forced to confront his own Achilles' heel.

_It's gotten better_, he told himself. _I don't obsess about her anymore….I don't go to 'our' places…Can't even remember the last time I took out her picture… I drink like a fish anymore. I started seeing people again….hell, I **married **someone…_

"Hey, counselor," a friendly voice behind him said. "What did I tell you, Joe? Walk into a bar on the Westside, we're gonna run into at least one person we know."

McCoy turned the barstool to face the pair. Both men in suits and ties - Green's off the rack - Fontana's tailor made, complete with matching silk tie and handkerchief.

"Good evening gentlemen, I hope you're here for the special and not on official business."

"Actually, both," said Fontana. "I've been hired by Kevin Iverson's parents."

"The kid that o.d.ed at that frat party last week,"McCoy asked.

"That's the one" Fontana replied. "Since Ed and Cassady caught the case, Ed and I figured we'd pool our resources. We just left the Dean's office and decided to grab a bite before I head back to Westchester - maybe play a game or two of darts - care to join us?"

McCoy stood, picking up his drink.

"Why not," he said, an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Damn Jack," Green said forty five minutes later. "Now I know why Lennie said never to play this game with you."

McCoy shrugged his shoulders as he stuffed his winnings in his pants pocket.

"My luck had to change sometime tonight."

"Come on McCoy, you're an old hand at romancing the ladies," Fontana said recalling the summary of the nights events McCoy had relayed as they played. "You buy some flowers, lay on the charm, and give her some of that lawyer double talk."

'"In case you hadn't noticed, it's a little late for flowers, Joe."

Fontana grinned as he walked over to an empty table. He plicked a green carnation from the bud vase on the table.

"This is why the Irish are known as great drinkers and the Italians are known as great lovers. We know how to improvise," Fontana said, sticking the flower in his lapel.

"This is why I stay single," Green interjected. "Keeps things simple."

"It's not like I took another walk down the aisle, detective."

The other two men exchanged knowing looks, smirking at McCoy.

"Yeah, but you moved her into your crib, man," Green taunted.

"Ed's right. You home is your space - your domain. Once you give that up, you give up your freedom."

"Well, I don't think I have to worry about reclaiming my 'space'. She was planning on leaving for home before the end of the week. The way things are going, she may leave by the end of the night," McCoy said finishing his drink.

"The way you went about it may have been ill-advised," Fontana said tactfully. "But, I've met the lady. She seems like the reasonable type, to me. She'll see it your way when she has a chance to stop and think about it."

"Oh, she's had a chance," McCoy said uneasily as he looked at his watch.

"Jack doesn't it seem odd to you that the attorney that was handling Diana Hawthorne's defense is handling a wrongful death suit by Samantha Weaver's father," Green asked. "I mean, Weaver ended up killing Hawthorne."

"Neal Gorton is one step away from being an ambulance chaser," McCoy said contemptuously. "Based on some of the things Jamie told me, I wouldn't be surprised to see him take on Osama Bin Laden as a client, if the price was right."

"Yeah, but what about Weaver's father," Green pressed. "Why would he want to deal with the man who was defending a woman his daughter killed? It just doesn't make sense to me."

McCoy silently considered Green's words, his frown deepening as he turned to Fontana.

"Joe, I think I may have another job for you and Monique, if you're available?"

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Prescott could stand it no longer. She carefully rested the brandy snifter on the side of the tub, reaching forward to tighten the facets to stop the slow, persistent drip of the tap.

She knew he was right. That's what made the whole stupid scene worse.

_No wonder Mother used say my mouth was going to get me into trouble I couldn't talk myself out of one day_, she thought contritely. They weren't kids. With age came experience. That experience brought baggage. She knew the subject of Claire Kincaid was as tender a spot for McCoy, as Sam Prescott was for her. She also knew McCoy's motives for his deception that evening had been selfless.

Jack McCoy was a man of conviction, a man that was determined to follow his conscious wherever it took him, regardless of the consequences. It was a trait she had found admirable, if not appealing, as she spent more time with him.

She picked up the glass, hesitating, as she thought better of having more to drink. With a sigh, she set the glass down by the tub and looked at the clock beside the mirror on the wall. It had been nearly two hours since McCoy had stormed out. Prescott had spent the first fifteen minutes thoroughly incensed, not only at McCoy's deception, but at being walked out on as well. As much as McCoy hated the silent treatment, Prescott hated leaving things unfinished - especially when that meant she couldn't have the last word.

After that, she had checked her voicemail. She returned calls from Ben Stone and learned the civil trial would indeed be in Manhattan in two weeks; her brother, who wanted to know if she'd be coming back to Inslip in time to help her niece with some back to school shopping; and a call from Cohen who wanted to fill her in on the 'hot' defense attorney he'd met the previous evening. By the time she'd hung up the phone her anger had subsided. Resisting the urge to call McCoy's cell phone, she had poured herself a drink and headed for the tub.

The water had cooled to an uncomfortable point. As Prescott reached for a towel, she heard the front door quietly open and close.

When she joined McCoy in the living room she smiled at the vase of half a dozen green carnations sitting on the coffee table.

"It's the best I could do given the late hour," he explained. "In the future, we'll have to remember to fight before the flower shops close for the night."

"Since I'm the one who shot off her mouth last, I guess I should be the one to apologize first," she said joining him on the sofa.

"Wouldn't have happened if hadn't play games to start with," he countered. "I am sorry I mislead you. I never would have stood for it if the positions were reversed. I have little tolerance for being played. But I'm not sorry you met Liz. She's exceptional at what she does and I think you should talk to her again."

Prescott nodded in agreement as he kissed her gently on the lips.

"You know Jack, there's a part of me that just wants to call Ben and Harold and tell them to make an offer. I did kill someone's child. I feel a responsibility in that."

McCoy looked away, carefully considering his response.

"Brooke my telling you what you did was justified isn't going to change how you feel. You're thinking like a prosecutor. That's part of the problem. That being said, I have a question: That day at the house, did you feel any malice towards Samantha Weaver?"

Prescott met his intent gaze shaking her head.

"I was disgusted by what she did to you. But did I feel malice? No."

" Was there premeditation in what transpired?"

"Of course not."

"Maybe that's something worth remembering as you decide what to do," he said quietly. "This isn't a murder trial, but if you remember what was in your heart at the time of the shooting, maybe you can think more objectively. If you're going to beat Neal Gorton, you're going to have to stand up and fight him with everything you've got, otherwise it's over. You might as well call Ben now and iron out that settlement."

"Yeah, I know," she said softly. "Listen, Liz did recommend a therapist she's worked with on the island. I will call her and set up an appointment. You've been incredibly patient Jack. I never should have been so difficult...I never should have brought up -"

"Hush, nothing to apologize for," he said putting his arm around her shoulder. "Before we explore some ways to properly make up, I need to tell you something."

"I'm all ears," she said eyeing him curiously while McCoy filled her in on his conversation with Fontana and Green.

"…I think Green is on to something. It doesn't make sense that Mr. Weaver just happened to choose the same firm that Diana Hawthorne was using for her defense."

"I agree, but it's a mystery as to how this ties in with a civil suit against me."

"That's what we have Fontana for. Joe's a master at unraveling mysteries."


	16. The Merry Widow

Brooke Prescott silently cursed. She brought the silver S2000 to a stop in front of her house. The man standing by the black SUV on her driveway started walking towards her.

"What the hell are you doing here Clint," she demanded as she removed an assortment of bags, whose contents ranged from clothing to groceries, from the trunk.

"Is that anyway to talk to your immediate superior," he said reaching for the last of the bags and closing the trunk.

"You are my immediate _supervisor_ - _not_ my superior - don't confuse the two. Besides, this is the weekend and you're blocking _my_ driveway. If you don't like the way I talk to you - leave," she responded briskly as she turned towards the house.

Clint Renard followed her up the steps and onto the porch. Renard was an attractive man in his late forties who cut an imposing figure. Tall and muscular, he looked particularly appealing in the jeans and polo shirt he was wearing. The blue shirt complimenting his tanned skin and deep blue eyes.

"Listen, I haven't had a chance to speak to you privately since you came back to work and -"

"Maybe if I didn't have to review every one of my cases that you steam rolled into a plea, I'd have time for a heart to heart." she retorted as they entered the house.

"I did what I had to do. I was short one of my best people," he said defensively.

"Yeah, well, that was your own doing. You can leave the shopping bags on the sofa."

"Looks like you really made the rounds," he said leaving his bags next to the ones Prescott had placed on the sofa.

"Some of that is from shopping with Lindsay for school clothes. I dropped her at practice. She's coming by Sunday for them," she said as they walked into the kitchen.

"And the _Victoria's Secret _bag," he asked as he thoughtfully fingered his dark moustache.

Prescott continued unpacking the grocery bags, glaring at Renard, as she opened the refrigerator door.

"I don't have time for this, Clint. I have people coming, so say whatever it is you came here to say. Just cut to the chase."

Renard watched as Prescott began to put various packages of finger food into the refrigerator, along with a variety of wine.

"Brooke, I just wanted you to know the leave - it really was nothing personal. In fact, you were very much missed while you were gone."

"Clint, I didn't know you cared," she said sarcastically as she pulled a bottle of _Dewar's_ from the last of the bags.

Renard picked up the bottle, critically eyeing it.

"You hate scotch."

"How nice to see you remember my likes and dislikes," she said snatching the bottle from him. "That being the case, you should recall how I feel about people that can't get to the point."

"The point is enough time has passed that this 'agree to disagree' arrangement between us has served its purpose. Brooke it's been how many years? You know I deeply regret what happened. While you were away, I spent a lot of time thinking about us."

Prescott rolled her eyes impatiently as she walked back into the living room and began gathering the bags from the sofa.

"We both know it was a mistake to get involved. You were in the middle of a divorce, I'd just lost Sam - it was a mess. The relationship we have now - or lack there of - works well for both of us, Clint. You did what you had to do when you put me on leave - I understand that. Let's just leave it at that," she said as she started up the stairs. "You can let yourself out."

"Brooke," he said following her. "You know she meant nothing to me-"

"What the _hell_," she demanded finding him on her heels. "You _married_ her! In fact you were _still _married to her the last time I checked."

"You know _why_ I married her Brooke," Renard said following her through the doorway.

Renard looked around the room dumbfounded. The bookshelves were empty, as was the rest of the room, except for two piles of neatly stacked boxes. Prescott placed all but three of the bags into the closet and turned to face him.

"My God Brooke, you finally did it. I never thought you'd ….When did you clean out Sam's study?"

Prescott took a deep breath.

"I decided it was time when I got back from Manhattan. You know my trial starts Monday. The last thing I need is a stroll down memory lane with you right now. I told you I have people coming."

Renard looked down at the remaining bags in her hand. The significance of the bag labeled _Victoria's Secret _dawning on him.

"I'd heard you were seeing someone - some guy from the Manhattan office - right? I had no idea it was anything serious," he said softly. "Are you in love with this guy, Brooke?"

"Clint, what's going on with you," she asked ignoring his question. "Why are you here?"

"It doesn't …I guess you're going to hear it soon enough," he said uncomfortably. "The marriage is over - never should have happened in the first place - but it's finished now."

Then it was Prescott's turned to look dumbfounded.

"What about your daughter," she asked quietly.

Before he could answer they heard a key turn the lock on the front door. McCoy called her name, as the front door closed.

"I'm upstairs," she called back, shaking her head at Renard. "Clint, I'm truly sorry. "

"My own fault I suppose. Marriage was a mistake from start to finish, "he replied as they were joined by McCoy holding his helmet and a bouquet comprised of green carnations and baby's breath. "Jack _McCoy_?"

"Have we met," McCoy asked handing Prescott the bouquet causally draping an arm around her waist.

"Jack, this is Clint Renard, the senior EADA for my office."

The two men exchanged greetings as they shook hands.

"Actually I know you by reputation," Renard said, studying McCoy intently. "I worked in the Manhattan DA's office for a time, when Adam Schiff was DA. I believe Diana Hawthorne was your, um assistant, at that time."

McCoy raised his eyebrows amused by the obvious innuendo.

"I know you by reputation as well, Mr. Renard. If you worked for Adam Schiff, I'm surprised you'd choose to run your office with the cut and run tactics you've implemented. Working with Adam, you should have learned the importance of supporting and respecting your staff as opposed to -"

"Jack-," Prescott interjected as Renard stiffened.

"I'm not going to discuss the interoffice procedures of the _Suffolk _county District Attorney's office with you, Mr. McCoy. I don't answer to the District Attorney for _New York_ county," Renard said tightly.

"After what you did to Brooke, I find it hard to believe that you are an invited guest. I assume you're here to discuss a case, Mr. Renard?"

Renard's face redden as he replied curtly, "Brooke will tell you the specifics - or not - Mr. McCoy. Brooke, good luck Monday. Keep me advised as to when you'll be back in the office. The Mercer trial starts Monday, as well. I assume you've brought Jake up to speed?"

Prescott nodded.

"He's ready to proceed. I'll see him Sunday before I leave for Manhattan."

McCoy looked inquiringly at Prescott while Renard made his way downstairs.

"What's in the bag?"

"What," Prescott gasped, flustered by the unexpected question.

McCoy reached for the bright pink bag and grinned.

"I assume this isn't for your niece," McCoy asked his eyebrows raised has he held up the dark green corset with black lace overlay and ribbon trim, along with the matching g-string.

"I bought _that _after Lindsay went to practice," she said as she smelled the bouquet.

"Very fragrant. They are lovely, Jack. Green seems to be our color," she teased.

"What can I say - I'm Irish," McCoy replied as they went across the hall to the bedroom.

Prescott set the remaining bags in the closet and picked up the vase of wilted green carnations before going into the bathroom.

"You know I love the flowers, but don't feel you have to bring them every time you come out," she said returning with the vase that had been refilled with fresh water and flowers.

"Some say 'absence makes the heart grow fonder '," McCoy said setting the helmet on the dresser before embracing her. "Others say 'out of sight, out of mind'. I'm not taking any chances. Besides, I'm just trying to keep up with a certain Italian."

"_You_ are not a man whose easily forgotten," Prescott murmured as he bent down to kiss her.

Prescott let him guide her to the bed as the kiss grew more intense, a hand slipping underneath the white tee shirt that she wore.

"How much time do we have before the others arrive?"

"Harold asked me to call him when Ben and Shambala get here. Shambala was meeting with a client - said she wouldn't be done until four thirty. It's four now - I'd say a couple of hours," Prescott replied breathlessly as she began to work on the buttons of his shirt. "What about Mr. Fontana?"

"Joe's on a stake out until Monique relieves him at five. Then he's got to catch the ferry, " McCoy said holding up the lingerie that remained his hands. "I think we have time for a private fashion show of sorts."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Forty five minutes later, McCoy kissed the top of her head as he tried to catch his breath. They were laying facing each other, limbs wrapped around one another.

"What do they call those things?"

"Merry Widows," she said with a smirk. "No pun intended."

"Did I mention how much I enjoyed your new attire," he asked lecherously.

Prescott giggled was she licked away a bead of perspiration that was running down McCoy's chest.

"I gathered that, based on your reaction."

"Speaking of reactions, I gathered by the way you reacted to Mr. Renard, that I was interrupting something. Anything you want to talk about?"

Prescott ran her fingers through his damp locks. While she found McCoy appealing under any circumstances, there was something especially enticing about him in the time just after making love. There was an openness, almost a boyish curiosity, as well as a raw lustfulness about him, that made her want him all the more. It was a time she found it impossible to deny him anything he asked.

"I told you a few weeks ago I had been involved with someone in the office-"

"You're _not_ serious," he teased, his suspicions confirmed.

"It was a longtime ago. The details really don't matter anymore," she said candidly. "Bottom line is his marriage just fell apart. I think he's just looking for someone to talk to. Too much déjà vu for me."

"That's how your relationship started before?"

"Oh, Jack," she said softly looking up into the deep brown eyes that could read her almost too well. "Yes. We were working on the Benton Brothers case. The serial killers. Half the office was involved in with the case one way or another."

"I remember the case - you second chaired for Renard?"

Prescott nodded.

"It's the case that got him his current position. Anyway, a lot of late nights, no one for either of us to go home to, both of us drinking way too much… it was just a matter of time. Didn't last too long - we got into it one night over the case - a disagreement about exculpatory evidence. He went out and slept with another ADA. She ended up pregnant. They got married. End of story."

"And now he's getting another divorce and he's back on your doorstep," McCoy mused.

"Is that a leprechaun I see on your shoulder or a green eyed monster,"she asked playfully.

"Neither. Just making an observation," he said as he absentmindedly ran a hand along her hip. "Another one being, maybe it's best you'll be going back to Manhattan with me Sunday."

"Come on Jack, you know you've got the best of both worlds with me in Islip and you in Manhattan. You're free to come and go as you please, no panty hose hanging in your shower, no one that _thinks_ you have to answer to them during the work week. On the weekend, well … let's just say it's a single man's dream."

"Maybe I miss having your panty hose hanging in my shower," he heard himself sputter. "Don't look at me like that - stranger things have happened. Who have thought I'd be having dinner with Ben Stone, _by choice_? That in itself should say something about my feelings concerning you."

Prescott ruffled his hair before she stood and began to gather pieces of clothing from the floor.

"You just like having someone around to pick up your dry cleaning during the week," she countered, setting the discarded clothing on the edge of the bed.

McCoy followed Prescott into the bathroom, reaching for her hand to turn her towards him.

"You don't really believe that?"

"No, I don't really believe that," she said as she reached to turn on the shower facets. "Come on, Jack. You're the one that said 'I don't make promises anymore', remember? Don't start down a road you don't really want to go down, just because you feel threatened by a guy like Clint."

McCoy followed her into the steamy water, reaching for a bar of soap while pulling her to him.

"Threatened isn't the word I'd use to describe how I feel right now," he murmured suggestively as he began to run his soapy hands over her body.


	17. Joe Explains: Fontana, Stone, Shambala

_A bit shorter than usual, but my return to work is approaching fast. Sadly, that means less time to write!_

Joe Fontana placed a bouquet of a dozen long stemmed roses - each one a different color- into Brooke Prescott's arms, as they stood in her entry way.

"Mr. Fontana, they're lovely. Thank you," she said her eyes wide with surprise. "What an unexpected pleasure."

Fontana smiled his most charming smile. He took Prescott's free hand and kissed it as he bowed ever so slightly, catching McCoy amused scowl, out of the corner of his eye.

"Being called 'Mr. Fontana' makes me feel like an old man, coming from a young woman, such as yourself. Please, call me Joe. As for the flowers - lovely flowers for a lovely lady. I apologize for my late arrival. The ferry was delayed due to some activity on the bridge, otherwise I would never have been so rude as to keep you and your guests waiting."

"No apology necessary, Joe," Prescott said grinning as she realized Fontana had to be the 'certain Italian' McCoy had referred to earlier, based on the charm that he seemed to exude as easily as most people drew breath.

She took the arm he offered and moved towards the dining room. "I appreciate you giving up you Saturday night to join us. Ben and Harold are anxious to hear what you've found out. Please, help yourself to something to eat. There are hors d'oeuvres on the dining room table. Can I get you something to drink?"

"I did manage to eat something on the ferry, but a glass of Chianti would be most welcome," he said.

"Chianti it is. Why don't you join the others and I'll bring your wine to you, once I put these beautiful flowers in water?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Pitiful, McCoy, just pitiful."

Fontana shook his head as he sat across from McCoy, his eyes on the vase of carnations that now sat on the coffee table in front of them.

"It was getting pretty deep in the entry just now. You take 'blarney' to a whole new level, Fontana. I thought _my_ people were known for being well versed in the fine art of-," McCoy said quietly enough for only Fontana to hear as he sat his drink on the table.

"Like I said the other night, the Italians have their skills, the Irish have theirs," Fontana interjected. "Maybe you better stuck to an area more suited to your skills, counselor."

McCoy shot him a look smiling to himself, as Prescott handed Fontana a glass of wine. McCoy draped an arm around her as she sat beside him, resting a hand on his thigh.

"I agree Joe," McCoy said with an innocent smile. "It's always wise to stick with what one does best."

Prescott flushed slightly, as the two men quietly chuckled at their private joke.

"Joe, I don't believe you've met everyone," Prescott said.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Green when I was at the 2 7. Jack here, I've worked with many times."

"That leaves Harold Chase of Beckham and Chase, who is representing me along with Professor Benjamin Stone, Ms. Green's - Shambala's - husband."

Once the introductions were made Harold Chase - a urbane man in his mid sixties with silver hair and thick round glasses - summarized the course of action he and Stone planned to take during the trial. After about twenty minutes, Chase turned the floor over to Fontana.

"Based on the information my people have been able to turn up, it is a certainty that Gorton and Steinhart initiated contact with Peter Weaver, not the other way around."

Fontana reviewed witness statements, copies of correspondence, as well as other pieces of pertinent information. The evidence showed that Weaver had been approached by Neal Gorton himself, regarding pursuing a wrongful death suit against Prescott and Suffolk county.

"But why," Prescott asked incredulous. "Why would Neal Gorton care about a woman he never met, a woman who murdered one of his own clients?"

Stone shifted uncomfortably, as Green squeezed his hand, her eyes sending her husband the unspoken message to remain silent.

"Oh Shambala, Ben might as well say it. He'd be right," McCoy responded irritably. "It comes right back to using you to get to me. Neal Gorton is a vindictive man, Brooke. The only reason I can see for him to approach Peter Weaver, is to use him to have an excuse to bring my involvement with Samantha Weaver back into the public light. Gorton's probably thinks, if he makes things unpleasant enough, he can force me out of the DA's office."

"That's insane," Prescott insisted. "We weren't even involved before the shooting. How -"

"That wouldn't matter to a man like Gorton," Stone interjected. "If Joe's right, Gorton wouldn't be above misleading the press, his own client, even a jury just to make this sensational enough to force Jack into a resignation. Think about the focus of the depositions."

"You think Gorton's misled his client? That could be grounds for disbarment," Green chimed in. "He would be up for disciplinary action, at the very least."

"Only if it could be proven to the satisfaction of the disciplinary committee," Chase interjected.

"Joe, what else did you learn about the father," Prescott asked.

"Well, let's see," he said skimming his notepad. "He started out as a rancher in Texas, eventually moved up to Montana where he retired. The man's not in this for the money. In addition to doing very well as a rancher and investing well, he is the sole beneficiary named in Samantha Weaver 's will. No, this isn't about wiping out the meager assets of a public servant. Whatever a court might award Mr. Weaver, it will be meaningless to a man with his means."

"It sounds to me like Mr. Weaver needs to have his eyes opened," Chase replied. "Ben, it seems to me a settlement meeting might be in order Monday morning before jury selection starts."


	18. Let the Games Begin:Stone and Gorton

Just beneath the surface of the well rehearsed amusement that masked Neal Gorton's face, was a look of controlled fury.

"The purpose of a settlement meeting is for the defendant's counsel to make a reasonable offer to the plaintiff, Mr. Stone. It's not a forum to try to undermine opposing counsel by presenting inaccurate speculation to the plaintiff."

"There's nothing inaccurate about what I've shared with your client, Mr. Gorton," Ben Stone said the quietly direct fashion that had been his trademark while he was a prosecutor. "Defense counsel wouldn't have use such extraordinary methods, had you been forthcoming with your client about your true reasons for wanting this action to go to trail, sir."

Stone turned his attention back to the man silently reviewing the information Stone had provided him.

"As Mr. Weaver can see, your desire to represent him in this matter is far from altruistic. One has to wonder why the senior partner of a firm that represented a woman Mr. Weaver's daughter murdered, would so aggressively seek to handle this case."

"Prior to Ms. Hawthorne's untimely death, she and Ms. Weaver were on their way to being charged as co- conspirators in the matter pertaining to the alleged wire tapping and conspiracy involving the District Attorney of New York county. They were friends, Mr. Stone. This office felt an ethical responsibility," Gorton said smoothly as he ignored the amused look on Stone's face, " to reach out to Mr. Weaver in his time of loss and provide any assistance it could. As for Ms. Hawthorne's murder, Ms. Weaver was never convicted of that crime."

"Only because of the tragic circumstances that made that impossible." Stone retorted as he turned his attention back to the other man across from him.

Peter Weaver's world weary eyes looked up from the file Stone had given him. He wasn't what Stone had expected. The man hardly looked the part of a retired rancher. The fragile figure was hunched over. His once well tailored black suit, hung on a frame that was hardly more than skin and bones. Based on his physical appearance, Stone would have put him at least ten years over his actual age of seventy one.

"Mr. Weaver, it brings me no joy to bring this information to your attention. I'm a father myself. The loss you suffered is unimaginable. Neither my client nor myself self wishes to add to that loss. We do believe, however, you have a right to know you are being used by counsel as a means to his own ends."

Weaver nodded. His pale blue eyes meeting Stone's gaze with surprising clarity. The look of pure repugnance was unmistakable.

"I didn't get to where I am today by being easily played, Mr. Stone. I may not have known the extent of Mr. Gorton's involvement with this Jack McCoy," Weaver began spitting out McCoy's name as if it were something vile in his mouth, "but it doesn't matter. What matter's is my daughter is dead. She's dead because of her involvement with that son of a bitch. Oh, he may not have pulled the trigger, but Samantha wouldn't have been anywhere near that house, had he not saw fit to entangle himself with her."

Stone's eyes widened in disbelief as he shot Gorton an accusing glare.

"Mr. Weaver, I can only image what counsel has told you about the relationship between Mr. McCoy and your daughter, but-"

"To hell with what 'counsel' told me - I was at my daughter's trial," the elderly man said with unexpected passion. "I may not have agreed with all of my daughter's choices Mr. Stone, but she wasn't the heartless bitch Jack McCoy made her out to be. A guilty verdict, based on what that lying tramp had to say…and they call that justice. Of course Sammy may have went off the deep end - may have felt more than a little vengeance - towards the man that was hell bent to put her in prison. I can't fault her for that."

"Sir, she was going to kill the man," Stone responded in disbelief.

"Be that as it may," Weaver said his angrily meeting Stone's gaze. "Maybe Mr. High and Mighty McCoy shouldn't have fucked with my daughter. I mean that _literally, _as well as figuratively."

Stone fought to clear his mind of the thoughts that bombarded him as Weaver's words rang in his ears.

"You're not suing Jack McCoy, sir. You're suing a woman who simply found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Brooke Prescott had no idea your daughter was even at the McCoy house - much less armed," Stone countered, desperately trying searching for a way for him to make the grieving father see reason. "She had nothing to do with the troubles your daughter had. Trying to ruin her won't give you the satisfaction you think it will, sir. It won't bring your daughter back."

Weaver shook his head and sighed.

"No, this won't bring Sammy back," he said softly, "nothing will. I'll be honest will you, Mr. Stone. I agreed to this meeting because I was curious. I don't care what happens with this suit - win or lose- doesn't make any difference. It's unfortunate your client as to suffer for her lover's arrogance."

"Which reminds me," Gorton added contemptuously, "this is a settlement meeting. I have yet to see an agreement on the table."

Stone reached for his briefcase. He slid a file to is adversary. Gorton sputtered with surprise, looking up at Stone with genuine amusement as he slid the file over to his client.

"Your client authorized this?"

"My client wrote it."

Weaver's eyes darted from Stone to Gorton trying grasp the meaning of their exchange.

"I don't understand. A settlement that offers to pay only my legal fees - no admission of guilt, no monetary damages - what's the point?"

"The point is Mr. Stone's ass is covered. Conducting a settlement meeting without a good faith offer on the table, would be grounds for sanctions from the court, as well as grounds to be brought before the disciplinary committee."

"Lawyers," Weaver hissed as he stood. "I think you know what to tell your client to do with her offer."

Weaver pushed the file back to Stone, who slipped the sealed envelope out of the file and placed in it the other man's hand.

"What now, Mr. Stone?"

"Something off the record from my client to you."

"Mr. Stone, you know-"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Gorton, I know the rules. The contents of that envelope have nothing to do with this case. Mrs. Prescott simply wishes to send you client her condolences. Your client is free to disclose whatever he sees fit - if he sees fit."


	19. The Trial:Stone, McCoy, & Gorton

Brooke Prescott sat back as the courtroom began to clear. She handed Ben Stone the yellow legal pad that was filled with notes she'd made while Stone and Gorton had begun selecting jurors.

"Well, that was fun," she said while Stone reviewed the notes.

Stone nodded solemnly, leaning closer to Prescott as he pointed to a passage on the pad.

"The upside is we're more than half way to having a jury. We should be able to get through opening arguments before lunch. Now about juror number four, I agree. But, if I excuse her for cause-"

"Mrs. Prescott?"

Prescott looked up at Peter Weaver's haggard face.

"Yes, Mr. Weaver?"

The old man seemed to hesitate. Neal Gorton appeared beside him, holding the small gate open.

"Peter, it's not appropriate -"

Weaver waved a dismissive hand at Gorton, his face reflecting his inner conflict.

"I didn't expect. I appreciate … Your letter was very kind, especially considering the circumstances. I want you to know this is not a personal vendetta against _you_, Mrs. Prescott," he said quickly turning away before she could respond.

Prescott watched the gate closed behind him shaking her head.

"Not personal? Hey, it's only my house and my life savings,"she muttered under her breath."nothing personal about that."

"I just hope that letter doesn't come back and bite you," Stone said in her ear.

"It won't."

"I still wish you 'd tell me what was in it, Brooke. I don't want to be taken off guard by Gorton. I can't plan a adequate defense-"

Prescott shook her head as she reached for her purse, pulling her cell phone out.

"I take full responsibility Ben. As an ADA, I always write a condolence letter to the family when I catch a homicide case. I felt I owed Peter Weaver the same courtesy. I just said some thing's that needed to be said," she replied as she opened the phone.

"Things that need to be said, "Stone repeated uneasily. "Speaking of which - I assume you 're about to call Jack?"

"You assume correctly. It's after five. He should be back from -"

"Don't," he said flatly. "Contact with Jack right now isn't in your best interest. In fact, it would be a good idea if you stayed with Shambala and myself until this thing is settled, instead of at Jack's place."

Prescott sighed. The day had been a stressful one. Stone had barely had time to tell her the obvious - that their offer had been rejected - before court started. Lunch had been a rush job - half of it spent in chambers while Stone fought Gorton's motions and tried to keep as much damning circumstantial evidence out of the courtroom as he could. The afternoon jury selection had been tedious, at best. Prescott was in no mood for, what she assumed would be, another lecture on her relationship with Jack McCoy.

"Listen Ben. We talked about this before. You know my feelings. I know you're trying to help. I appreciate it, I do. But this has to stop. You and Jack seemed to have put your differences a side Saturday night. You actually said you enjoyed yourself when we all went for dinner after our strategy session - hell -I heard you two laughing together about the time Adam Schiff-"

"You don't understand, Brooke," Stone said as he instinctively looked around the deserted room, assuring himself they were indeed alone. "This isn't about any ill will I have towards Jack. You didn't hear Peter Weaver this morning. I think we have a strong chance of wining this case - the police report and the independent inquiry support your version of events, Samantha Weaver's history, your record in the community and in the DA's office…all positive points. But Gorton is going to get every bit of mileage out of this case that he can - with his client's blessing."

"Ben I understand that, but that doesn't-"

"The man referred to Jack as your lover," Stone injected bluntly. "He flat out told me he doesn't care what the outcome of this case is. I'm not warning you away from Jack because of what happened with Claire or my supposed paranoia.This lawsuit - it's all about Jack - Peter Weaver as much as said so. Brooke, you need to distance yourself from Jack. The sooner the better."

"I won't be controlled by Neal Gorton or anyone else," she said flatly.

"I understand why you feel that way, but as much as we've been at odds, Jack understands courtroom strategy. Once he knows what's transpired, he'll be the first one to agree with me on this."

Prescott nodded, placing her hand on top of his, as she looked him in the eye.

"Of course he will, which is exactly why he's not going to know what transpired. Remember Ben, I'm not just your friend. I'm your client. As a client, I am telling you , under no circumstances are you to discuss any of this with Jack."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Not the charcoal one. The light grey one, with this."

McCoy stared at the tie that had been thrust into his hand, before placing the dark grey suit back into the closet.

"I always wear the charcoal when-"

"You want to make an impression on the jury," she finished for him. "Like during your closing. But you're a witness, not a prosecutor, today. The light grey is less imposing, more approachable."

"Like-ability points," he inquired with amusement, as he continued buttoning his white dress shirt. "Is that why I haven't seen you in a suit since the trial started?"

Prescott shrugged her shoulders she ran a hand over the front of the floral skirt she wore.

"Just playing the game, counselor. Can't hurt, might help. Besides, I'm following Ben's directions to the tee," she replied as she headed to the kitchen.

She set a cup of coffee on the counter beside the sugar bowl a few minutes later, while McCoy set out to retrieve the morning paper.

"Speaking of Ben, can you think of any reason why he isn't returning my phone calls," McCoy asked as he reached for the newspaper that lay at his doorstep.

"Not other than the fact he's on overload. Remember, the new term at NYU starts in three weeks. He's trying to stay on top of my case and prepare for the fall term. That's quite a load," Prescott replied as she turned away from him to pour another cup of coffee. "Besides, you get your nightly update from me. That should be more than enough information for you. Anything of interest in the morning paper?"

McCoy closed the front door, his face drained of color as he stared at the headline, his pulse racing.

"Just the usual - nothing worth talking about," he said with forced casualness, stuffing the paper into his satchel, before returning to the counter. "I'm running late - you mind if I take it to read on the way to the office?"

Prescott shook her head as she turned to face him.

"Not at all - I don't have time to read it - anyway. Ben wants to review my testimony one more time before court convenes. It's a safe bet that you'll finish testifying before lunch and then I'm up. Jack, are you feeling all right? You're awfully pale."

McCoy took a long swallow of his coffee, before responding.

"I'm not quite awake yet. If you'll recall you were rather - demanding - last night," he said with a leer as he moved behind the counter, slipping his arms around her waist.

"Is that a complaint counselor," she asked playfully grabbing his lapels to draw him to her.

Some color returned to his cheeks, as McCoy recalled the last session of lovemaking from the previous evening.

"Hardly," he whispered as his tongue slipped between her lips.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Goodmo-"

Jack McCoy cut off his administrative assistants greeting barking as he sailed passed her desk, morning paper in hand.

"Laura, get me the Bar Association President."

"Charles Garnett?"

"No - the state bar - Leonard Shipman and tell Connie I need to see her," he snapped as he slammed the door behind him.

Rubirosa who had stepped into the hallway upon see McCoy leave the elevator, looked down at her copy of the _New York Ledger _before meeting Laura Dutton's wary glance.

"I guess he's already seen the paper," Rubirosa said leaving her copy on Dutton's desk as she reached for the door knob.

"You wanted to see me?"

McCoy tossed the suit jacket and tie on one of the two chairs in front of his desk, motioning for Rubirosa to sit in the other chair.

Rubriosa studied his face carefully, noting how flushed his face seemed to be.

"Jack what's wrong? You look like you just ran the marathon."

"I'm fine. I needed to clear my head after reading this trash," he said slamming the newspaper down on his desk. " I sent the driver away and walked the last few miles."

Rubirosa knew when she saw the headline_: DA Dodges Another Bullet: A Trail of Trist's Threatens to Thwart McCoy, _there would be hell to pay. She just didn't plan to be first in line to make a contribution.

"Jack, you knew Neal Gorton was going to play rough. After the deposition didn't you expect-"

"I expected the man to follow the code of conduct," McCoy retorted. "Just because he's on the other side of the aisle doesn't mean he can make his own rules. Any idiot can see he's leaked information to the press to feed this frenzy."

"Jack you can't-"

"Have you talked to Tracey this morning," he asked changing the subject.

"Yes," she responded, knowing the other cause for his less than jovial mood.

"Then you know she's given her two weeks notice?"

"Jack, it can't be helped. Her mother is very ill -"

"Tracey explained that when we spoke last night," he said his tone becoming more resigned. "She's in a tough situation and I sympathize, but it leaves me short at the worst possible time. I hate to do this to you again, but I'm going to need you to help me pick up the slack. I've asked Tracey to bring you up to speed on the cases that already have trial dates set. I'm going to ask for you to take the lead on the majority of those. The Ramirez and Gelatti cases, I'll take on myself. The others I'll reassign to other ADA's in-"

"Ramirez _and _Gelatti," Rubirosa repeated. "You're going back into the courtroom to prosecute a case being handled by Gorton and Steinhart _now_?"

The look his face was fierce enough to cause Rubirosa to involuntarily move her chair a few inches away from the desk.

"I just lost my senior EADA. Both cases are high profile capital cases, in the middle of trial. Now is not a good time to question my judgment, Consuela."

"Mr. Shipman on five," Dutton's voice announced.

"Thank you, Laura. Don't you have court in an hour," McCoy asked as he started to reach for the receiver.

"Leonard Shipman," Rubirosa asked gathering what was left of her courage. "Jack you can't have Neal Gorton disbarred just because he throws a little mud-"

"I can sure as hell try! Slander is more than 'a little mud'. If he was just going after me, I'd break Neal Gorton's nose and do the time for assault one. But when he goes after Brooke-"

"Jack, it's been over a week. The trial's almost over. Maybe if you just rode it out a little longer-"

"Connie, this discussion is over. I'm due to testify in an hour at Brooke's trial. Just talk to Tracey and be ready to present the cases."


	20. Jack Takes the Stand:Gorton,Stone McCoy

After McCoy finished reciting the oath he'd heard more times than he could count, he stated his name for the record, and waited for Ben Stone to begin asking the questions that would lead him back to the day of Samantha Weaver's death. There was standing room only in the gallery. No doubt due to Gorton's tipping the press off that the District Attorney himself was schudeled to testify that morning. As the questioning continued, several things struck McCoy about the scene.

First, the ease and skill Ben Stone had maintained - if not strengthened - in his time away from the criminal justice system, in helping a witness present understandable and accurate evidence to a jury. McCoy found himself in awe of his former adversary. He made a mental note to approach Stone with a serious offer to return to the District Attorney's office, once the matter at hand was settled.

Second, the strength of Peter Weaver's unspoken emotions, as evidenced by the unflinching stare the man kept fixed on McCoy through out the questioning. McCoy couldn't recall feeling such pure hate before - even from the likes of Leland Barnes. If he'd had any doubts as to what this mess was really about, they had been put to rest by Weaver's scathing glare.

Finally, the unspoken support of Prescott, that seemed to balance everything else that was going on in the room. Through the slightest of smiles, the light in her eyes, even the way she tilted her head when Stone made preemptive strikes regarding McCoy's 'relationship' with Samantha Weaver - Prescott reassured him.

He waited for her to look up from her legal pad, trying to steal a glance, to gage her reaction to what was being said as Stone took him through the night he and Samantha Weaver slept together. _My God_, he thought in amazement_, she's in the middle of the fight of her life and she looks…radiant?_

Although he'd exercised caution from the start, McCoy had been conscious of his deepening affection for his lover. In spite of the fact he had gone to great lengths to avoid examining those feelings closely. Upon meeting her beaming gaze, any doubts he had about his love for Brooke Prescott were put to rest.

"Your witness, sir."

McCoy turned his gaze to Neal Gorton, a slight smile forming on his otherwise emotionless face, as McCoy indulged himself in a brief fantasy that ended in Gorton being rushed way in an ambulance.

"So basically, what you're saying is your former lover was shot by your current lover?"

"Objection, your honor - facts not in evidence," Stone said almost before the last word was out of Gorton's mouth. "Mr. McCoy just acknowledged a one night stand with Ms. Weaver - nothing more. As far as having a sexual relationship with Mrs. Prescott-"

"One night or one hundred nights - Mr. McCoy acknowledges that he and Ms. Weaver were lovers," Gorton countered like a dog with a bone.

"Your honor whether or not Mr. Gorton's statement is true, it's only purpose is to inflame the jury-"

"Goes to the state of mind of the defendant the night of the shooting ,"Gorton persisted.

"Counsel hasn't even established the timeline of any relationship between Mr. McCoy and Mrs. Prescott," Stone countered.

"Sustained, ask another question Mr. Gorton," the judge said dispassionately.

Gorton collected his thoughts as he walked back and forth momentarily.

"Mr. Stone is correct. Let's back track a moment. Mr. McCoy, are you and Brooke Prescott lovers?"

"Yes," McCoy responded his eyes on Gorton, fighting inwardly to keep his tone relaxed, as he steeled himself for what he knew was next.

"When did you and Mrs. Prescott become lovers?"

"Approximately a month after Ms. Weaver's death."

"Approximately," Gorton said with a gleam he didn't bother trying to hide. "Are you suggesting that event wasn't memorable enough for you to recall the exact date? Rather insulting for Ms. Prescott, wouldn't you say?"

Body and mind fought for control as McCoy resisted the urge to rise up and for fill his earlier fantasy. A voice inside him reminded him provoking a reaction was the goal of Gorton's callous remark.

Stone was on his feet, the judge banging the gavel, as Gorton innocently made his one word response.

"Withdrawn or not - disrupt this court with another inflammatory remark like that Mr. Gorton and you'll be writing a check at the end of today's session - understood," growled the judge.

"Yes, your honor," Gorton replied as if accepting an offer of food or drink. "You said approximately a month before Mrs. Prescott shot and killed Ms. Weaver - not before?"

"Yes."

Gorton returned to the table where Peter Weaver sat and picked up a document.

"According to a statement made by William Wright, the parking attendant on duty at Flynn's Bar and Grill - Plaintiff's exhibit 48 - you and Mrs. Prescott were seen the night before the murder - July 4th of this year - embracing and kissing on the way to the ferry docked in Ocean Beach. Is this statement accurate?"

McCoy struggled to maintain his relaxed facade, keeping his eyes on the jury, not daring to meet Gorton's arrogant gaze.

"The attendant on duty that night will verify -"

"Yes or no, Mr. McCoy?"

"Yes."

"Yet, you still maintain you two were not lovers at that time?"

"Yes," he replied risking a glance at the defense table. Stone gave him a slight nod - a signal he'd clean up McCoy's response on redirect. Prescott maintained her silent support - making him smile slightly - as she causally rested an arm on the railing between herself and the gallery. A gesture he understood immediately.

"Curious. Perhaps you could explain a remark made during Ms. Weaver's interview the morning of the 5th by Mrs. Prescott during the questioning the two of you conducted with Samantha Weaver-"

"Hearsay your honor," Stone countered as Prescott bit her lip.

"Sustained. Either save it for when you cross examine the defendant or introduce corroborating evidence, Mr. Gorton."

"Yes, your honor," Gorton said moving towards the table. He stopped, then looked at Prescott, finally he returned to McCoy smiling all the while.

_Son of a bitch is loving this_, McCoy thought spitefully, as returned Gorton's smile.

"When Mrs. Prescott left your lunch meeting that afternoon, how would you describe her state of mind - based on your observations that day?"

McCoy resisted sighing, instead calmly looking at Gorton.

"Mrs. Prescott was annoyed, due to a disagreement we had regarding strategy used in that morning's questioning of Ms. Weaver."

"She was unhappy with you was she?'

"Yes."

"Then why in the world would she make the hour long trip out to see you on a holiday weekend, if you were indeed simply colleagues working a case together?"

"The police discovered a fax from the NYPD that came from Mrs. Prescott's office, along with some money and a note indicating both were from Mrs. Prescott, in my mailbox after the shooting - I would assume they were the reasons she initially came by - any other answer I give you would be purely speculation on my part, Mr. Gorton," McCoy said frankly.

Gorton sneered meeting McCoy amused gaze.

"Then I will ask you something only you are able to answer. Mr. McCoy you have testified that when you arrived at you residence you found Ms. Weaver in your home, with a gun, and she stated her intent was to kill you. In your best estimation, please tell us how much time passed between discovering Ms. Weaver in your home and Mrs. Prescott shooting her?"

"Approximately one hour passed."

"One hour - sixty minutes, 3600-"

"Your honor, the defendant acknowledges the length of time one hour encompasses," Stone said causing the jury to quietly chuckle along with the judge.

"Mr. Gorton-"

Gorton raised a hand to respond to the judge.

"Understood, your honor. Ms. Weaver tells you she is going to kill you, yet an hour goes by and you're still alive? What injuries had you sustained?"

"I sustained no injuries."

"So… you were unharmed?"

"Yes."

"What luck," Gorton gasped. "How did you manage such a feat?"

"I tried to keep her talking."

"As you did that, did you observe any changes in Ms. Weaver manner - physically or emotionally?"

McCoy knew where he was going. It was in the police report. It had to be said.

"I observed Ms. Weaver tier of holding the gun. Her hand had begun to drop, due to the weigh of the gun and the length of time-"

"Objection," Stone rang out. "Mr. McCoy has no way of knowing why Ms. Weaver's-"

"Over ruled, Mr. Stone. Continue, Mr. McCoy."

"It appeared the weight of the weapon was straining her hand."

Gorton nodded triumphantly.

"One last question. After fourteen bullets left Mrs. Prescott's gun - three of which found themselves in Ms. Weaver's body- what did you do?"

The question McCoy had been dreading - as a prosecutor he knew what the answer _should_ have been.

"I sat with Mrs. Prescott and waited for the police."

"Non responsive, your honor. I'll try again - I asked you what you did, what _action_ did you take?"

"I was in shock-"

"Mr. McCoy-"the judge cautioned.

"None. I took no action."


	21. Strange Lunch Partners

The gavel slammed down with a bang after Judge Northridge dismissed the jury for lunch. As people began to file out of the room, McCoy stepped down from the witness stand and joined Stone at the defense table.

"All right Ben, lets hear it. How much damage was done this morning," he asked quietly, his bewildered gaze following Prescott as she left the courtroom.

Stone looked up from the folder he was shoving into his briefcase.

_Under no circumstances are you to discuss any of this with Jack_. The words had been intermittently ringing in his ears for over a week. He never thought he'd see the day he would trust Jack McCoy enough to want to confide in him,much less to think that confidence could be in the best interest of a woman they both cared about. But, much to Stone's surprise, that day had come.

"I think between the two of us, we cleaned up the majority of the muck Gorton made. You make a credible witness, Jack. A lot of what Gorton tried to pull irritated not only the judge but members of the jury - the looks they gave him - well, it's obvious …,"Stone replied abrupting becoming silent.

" What's obvious," McCoy pressed. "Ben, I realized aren't exactly friends, but in the last few weeks I thought we'd both made some progress at putting the past behind us. After all, we both want what's best for Brooke - which reminds me - the way she dashed out of the courtroom...Is something wrong?"

"If anyone had told me six months ago I'd be saying what I'm about to say, I'd have called them crazy. Shambala was right. It's time to let the past - to let Claire - rest in peace."

McCoy nodded.

"That time is long over due. When this is over, I'd like you come come by my office. There are several things I'd like to discuss with you. But, right now, I'd like to know where Brooke went and what you're obviously not telling me."

"Brooke's boss called her as we were walking into the courtroom - wanted to meet her for lunch -"

"Michael Jackowicz?"

"No, the EADA - Renard - I think. As for the rest, I'm sorry Jack. I can't discuss the case with you."

McCoy's face clouded as he frowned. He wasn't sure which statement bothered him more.

"And why is that, Ben?"

Stone met his gaze, grateful to finally have the chance to send McCoy in the right direction.

"My client's exact words were 'under no circumstances are you to discuss any of this with Jack'."

"Any of _what_? The case? Why?"

Stone shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"You'll have to ask my client."

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"I don't know why this couldn't have been done over the phone or at least at _Clancy's_," demanded Prescott irritably, as she slid into the booth. "Instead of making me schlep all the way over to Central Park."

"I thought since I had to be in the city today, I'd give you the news in person. Besides, I thought you could use a distraction. In the old days, _Tavern on the Green _was one of your favorite places to eat when we would come into Manhattan," Renard said as the waiter returned with their drinks. "I took the liberty of ordering you -"

"Take it back," she said shaking her head. "I'm not staying Clint. In case you hadn't noticed I'm in the middle of a trial."

"I'm not aware of any rule that says eating well will adversely effect the outcome of a pending case."

"And I'm involved with Jack McCoy, as you well know. If I was in the mood for witty repartee, I'd be lunching with him."

"Are you ready to order, sir?"

Renard closed the menu shaking his head.

"Just the drink for now, thank you. Brooke, you can't be serious about McCoy-"

"God damn it Clint, you said you had business to discuss," she said grabbing her clutch bag off the table. "Either get to the point or talk to yourself, because I'm leaving, whether you're my supervisor or not. Ever hear of something called sexual harassment?"

Renard nodded in agreement.

"All right - you're right. Look, I wanted to tell you in person. Ray Ferris can't represent the office at the Drug Trafficking Task Force Summit in Miami next month. His wife was diagnosed with breast cancer yesterday and Michael asked me to make another recommendation. I told him to send you."

Prescott set her bag back down, stunned by Renard's words. It was an assignment she had literally begged for when it first came up. It was a way to continue the work Sam Prescott had started as a Federal Prosecutor against the drug trade organized crime controlled. She had gone over Renard's head when he refused to recommend her, only to be overruled by the DA himself. Both men feared the asignment would serve to bring unwelcome attention back to Prescott, from the man responsible for her husband's death.

"Well, I'm sorry to gain the opportunity this way. Rey must be devastated. You fought me tooth and nail on this. So did Michael. What else changed?"

Renard picked up his glass and studied it without answering.

"It must have killed you to back track with Jackowicz on this," Prescott said as her mind put the pieces together. "after the way you sold me out, last time. It's a six month assignment. That means my entire caseload as to be reassigned. Why would you put yourself through that when you don't even think…you bastard."

"Do you still want the assignment or not?"

_Of course I do, _she thought angrily. For five years she'd lived in fear, as well as mourning, because of drug lords. Hell yes, she wanted a chance to not only get some old fashioned pay back, but a chance to be involved in something that could make a difference nationwide, as far as the successful incarceration of the big fishs that ran the drug cartels.

But to get it as a means for Clint Renard to pull strings in her personal life. Was that too high a price to pay?

"You know if you put this much effort in your so called marriage, maybe it wouldn't be ending," she said standing.

"That's not an answer," he said unruffled.

"Do you deny that this is nothing more than a pathetic manipulation to try and put some distance between me and Jack?"

Renard looked up into her blue grey eyes seeing a look he knew all too well.

"Before you decide to throw something at me, remember _you_'_ve_ wanted this for months. Whatever my motives are for offering it to you, that doesn't change the fact you would be doing something is important for you and the community."

"Have I told you what a pathetic bastard you are lately?"

"Well, you did tell me less than five minutes ago how pathetic my manipulations are - does that count," he said the slightest of smirks. "give it some thought. I need an answer by the end of the week."

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Prescott was preoccupied with Renard's comments when she saw the cab in front of the restaurant. Without thinking she jumped in the back, startled to find Peter Weaver looking equally startled.

"Mrs. Pres-"

"Mr. Weaver - I apologize," she said as she opened the door. "I didn't see you. I'll take the next one."

"Wait," the older man said, his hand on her arm. "I assume were going to the same place? Just stay where you are. We can share the cab."

Prescott shook her head.

"That's very generous, but it's improp-"

"Lady," interjected the taxi driver. "Are you staying or going?"

"She's staying," Weaver said handing the cab a twenty.

Prescott sighed as she flipped her cell phone open.

"Thank you, Mr. Weaver."

For the first several minutes Prescott busied herself listening to her voice mail. When she returned the phone to her purse, Weaver turned to her with a troubled expression on his rough face.

"Rather a hurried lunch," he remarked.

"Due to the company, I never did get around to the food," she replied with a chuckle. "and yourself?'

Weaver gave as soft laugh as well.

"Similar problem - I was stood up. I have a fifteen minute rule."

"I should have been so lucky,' Prescott said under her breath.

"Your Mr. McCoy showing his true colors?"

Prescott flushed, resisting the urge to defend her lover.

"Actually, I wasn't meeting Mr. McCoy."

Weaver nodded. Both of them stared out of opposite windows at the mid day traffic.

After a few minutes Weaver turned to her.

"How did you know about Sammy's Four H scholarship," he blurted out. "it wasn't in any thing I released for her obituary."

"I remembered reading about it in her forward for _How to Make it in the Corner Office . _I remembered it because Four H seemed so far removed from the image of a CEO, one usually projects. Yet, your daughter was very open - very proud of her early accomplishments - as well she should have been."

"You read Sammy's book - before - before her death?" Weaver's eyes softened as Prescott nodded. "I didn't think fancy lawyers like you took the time to read anything but law journals written by other fancy lawyers."

"Excuse me Mr. Weaver, but this 'fancy lawyer' waited tables at her uncles pub to earn enough money to pay for city college and eventually law school."

"Did you," he said sitting back as he studied her face. "Sammy waited tables in the summer when she was going to Harvard."

"I remember that from the book. No one can say your daughter wasn't a hard worker."

"Damn right," he said with fatherly pride. "I taught my girl right - nothing was handed to Sammy. She earned everything she ever got."

"My father felt the same way - Malinowski's make their own way- those were his words to live by."

"Malinowski?"

"Maiden name."

"Ah, yes. Of course. I had Mr. Gorton do a little research for me on you." he said off handedly. "Asked him to focus on the last decade or so. Just to get a feel of what kind of person …tough break for you losing your husband the way you did. Knowing about the circumstances…it makes sense …."

"Tougher break for you, losing your daughter the way you did," she said softly wanting to say more, but knowing better than to cross the line, especially during a trial.

"When I read your letter, I expected a ploy - something McCoy may have had a hand in. Then I noticed details…Like the scholarship. I knew you meant what you said," he whispered. "I appreciate that, Mrs. Prescott - no matter what happens with … this afternoon won't be pleasant for either of us…"

Before he could continue, the cab pulled up in front of the courthouse barricades. Prescott reached to hand the cabby the fare and Weaver pushed her hand a side.

As he opened his door he turned to look at her, again a look of uneasiness rested on his face.

"No matter what happens. One way or another things will be resolved very soon."


	22. Brooke Takes the Stand: Stone & Gorton

_Sorry about the rush job on this chapter. Going back to work Monday, so time's almost out for wrapping up the story. Bear with me, will edit and repost if need be, when real life is not so busy. _

" I was about ready to form a search party," Stone said as Prescott joined him at the defense table. "Jack's been looking for you-"

"I wasn't alone when I got his message. Now were playing phone tag - I just tried his cell. It went straight to voice mail," she replied as the bailiff gave the instruction for all to rise.

Within a few minutes Prescott was being sworn in. She glanced around the courtroom, taking note that the gallery was all but empty. She chalked that up to the show being over for the press, once the DA had finished giving his testimony. Her eyes rested on first Neal Gorton, who acknowledged her with a slight bow of the head - an opponent preparing for battle - then on Peter Weaver. Weaver held his chin in his hand frowning as he prepared to reveal his all too real grief, his attorney encouraged him to put out for public viewing, for the jury's benefit.

As Ben Stone led her through the series of events leading to the death of Samantha Weaver, he took care to answer questions Gorton had put in the minds of the jurors regarding Prescott's state of mind, training, and most importantly, her relationship with Jack McCoy. Prescott knew the drill - reveal the worst before your opponent does it for you.

"Mrs. Prescott, Mr. Gorton eluded to an exchange that took place between yourself, Ms. Weaver, her attorney Andrew Tepper, and Mr. McCoy that later resulted in a disagreement between yourself and Mr. McCoy. Please tell the court the specifics of that conversation."

Prescott summarized the interview recalling specifics that led her to the conclusion Samantha Weaver had not only arranged for the murder of Charles Dillon, but had done so to set up her lover to take the fall, thus punishing her lover for her unfaithfulness.

"Ms. Weaver asked me if I had viewed the disc of Mr. McCoy and herself, she wanted to know if I had slept with him prior to viewing it."

"…so when Ms. Weaver asked you about your relationship with Mr. McCoy, how did you respond," Stone asked.

"I didn't respond to her question. I asked her instead, if that's what she had done before she slept with Julia Veloso," Prescott said calmly, keeping her eyes on Stone. "I asked her if she had watched a video of Ms. Veloso, before she initiated a sexual relationship she agreed to pay for, with Ms. Veloso."

_God, it's like being at the denist, waiting for the drill_, Prescott thought when Stone asked her to use the exact words she had that morning. 

"I said: 'Did you view a video of her 'work' before you decided she was worth ten grand a month to fuck on demand?'"

Prescott scan hear the sharp in take of breath by some of the jurors. She stole a look at Peter Weaver, genuinely sorry to reveal what she knew he'd already heard from Andrew Tepper's testimony, but would none the less, be disturbing for him to listen to again.

"And what were you hoping to accomplish by asking that question?"

"I was hoping to determine from Ms. Weaver's reaction whether or not she and Ms. Veloso had what Ms. Weaver termed a 'functional relationship' - or something more. Something that might have been a motive for Ms. Weaver to engineer the murder of Charles Tepper."

Stone turned his gaze to the jury.

"When you met Mr. McCoy for lunch did you discuss the outcome of this tactic?"

"Yes."

"And when you went to Mr. McCoy's home hours later, what was the purpose of that visit?"

"I went to Mr. McCoy's home to give him the fax from the NYPD that arrived at my office for him, as well as to give him the money I owed him."

"Were you angry with either Mr. McCoy or Ms. Weaver?"

"No."

"Did you know Ms. Weaver was in the house when you arrived?"

"No."

"When you found Ms. Weaver in the house what was your reaction?"

"I reacted with surprise. I suspected Mr. McCoy was not alone and might be in need of assistance. I was shocked to find he and Ms. Weaver in a struggle for a gun."

"When you saw that scene, what went through your mind?"

"Shock. Concern. Fear, that the gun would go off whether deliberately or accidentally. They were struggling with a loaded gun when they fell back. Anything could have happened."

Stone nodded as he causally faced the jury.

"And when you fired your gun - what made you decide to shoot?"

Prescott could feel her hands start to tremble. She tried to focus on her answers, on the courtroom, as the therapist Liz Olivet had recommended had urged her to. The therapy had been beneficial. It was the therapist who had suggested the letter to Peter Weaver - a suggestion that had triggered Prescott's realization that although Samantha Weaver was a homicide victim - her death had not been a premeditated murder. Writing the letter, as she would to the family of any homicide victim she was dealing with, had served to release much of the guilt she felt and to assure her that she had not formed anything like the requisite intent to classify the shooting as murder.

She placed her now clammy hands together in her lap and kept her eyes focused on Stone, thus failing to see the man in the light grey suit quietly enter the back of the room.

"I could see Ms. Weaver felt cornered - trapped-"

"Objection - the witness is speculating," Gorton interjected.

"The witness is giving eyewitness testimony based on her observations. This is a civil trial - not a criminal trial. The burden of proof is lesser than in a criminal case, which should lend the defendant comparable flexibility."

"Mr. Stone is correct," the judge concurred. "Over ruled, Mr. Gorton. Continue, Mrs. Prescott."

"I could see her raise her gun towards Mr. McCoy and I believed waiting would result in Mr. McCoy's death."

"At anytime during the sequences of events, did you feel anything remotely resembling malice towards Ms. Weaver?"

"I felt horrified, numb ...,"she said grateful her lunch had been cut short as her stomach lurched.

"Mrs. Prescott, did you feel anything remotely resembling malice," Stone repeated his eyes returning to her once he positioned himself in front of Prescott, blocking her view of Gorton and Weaver.

"No. Nothing like that," she said holding on to Stone's reassuring gaze like a drowning man would a life preserver. "I'd never shot anyone before. I'd seen the results… in my work, seeing the victims of shootings…when my husband was shot…"

Stone wanted to gage the jury's reaction to Prescott's words, but didn't dare break eye contact with her. He knew letting her digress in the direction she was headed - at least until Gorton raised an objection - could garner Prescott more sympathy with the jury. But he could already see what bringing those memories up was costing his client.

"Mrs. Prescott, after the shooting, what did you do?"

"I dropped the gun. I…couldn't believe…I just stared. I started to shake, I remember feeling dizzy. I thought I was going to pass out," she said struggling to put together a coherent sentence.

"Were you able to call 911 again?"

"No. I, I remember shaking…I don't know how I managed to …Jack, Jack helped me. kept me from.. he must have gotten me to the floor. I passed out. I must have. One minute I was on the floor, the next I was in the ER."

Stone nodded, giving her the assurance they were almost done.

"So it would fair to say you were in shock immediately after the shooting?"

"That's what the emergency room doctors called it - yes."

Stone stepped towards the defense table. While he introduced the emergency room report, Prescott shifted to the gallery. Her eyes rested on the compassionate mask that replaced, not quite quickly enough, the look of anguish and dismay on Jack McCoy's face.

"So your failure to act had nothing what so ever to do with a desire by either yourself or Mr. McCoy, to deny Ms. Weaver medical assistance, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

Stone returned his gaze to his client, giving her a fleeting smile before he returned to his seat.

"No further questions."

Neal Gorton approached Prescott, turning briefly to face a gallery. Stone turned slightly to see who his adversary was looking at when, Gorton's lips briefly turned upward in a wicked smile, his eyes void of any trace of humor. Stone cringed upon see the withering stare on McCoy's face.

"Mr. Gorton are you ready to proceed," the judge asked sharply.

"Of course, your honor. So Ms. Weaver appeared to feel cornered or trapped, in your opinion, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did she say as much?"

"No."

"Are you telepathic?"

"Your honor-"Stone began.

"Mr. Gorton watch yourself," Judge Northridge demanded.

"Mrs. Prescott, how did you reach the conclusion Ms. Weaver felt cornered or trapped?"

"The expression on her face when she-"

"That expression couldn't have also been interpreted as alarm or fear or surprise when she saw your gun?"

"No."

"No? What makes you so certain of that," Gorton asked incredulously.

"Because when she looked at me the first time, I saw surprise. As she stood - after I had already told her once to drop her weapon….when she raised her gun-"

"How many times did you tell Ms. Weaver to drop her weapon?"

"Two."

"_Two _? Seems a bit rushed, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Prescott?"

"It seems a bit tragic, Mr. Gorton," she countered.

"Agreed. Couldn't this tragic event have been avoided if you hadn't rushed to judgment regarding Mrs. Weaver state of mind?"

"Objection," Stone responded. "Mrs. Prescott has no way of knowing what events would or would not have a happened -"

"Withdrawn," Gorton replied not losing any momentum. "Mrs. Prescott, didn't what you saw in the recording of Mr. McCoy and Ms. Weaver having sex play a significant part in your decision making process that day?"

Prescott made a point of keeping her eyes on Gorton, seeing his tactic for what it was.

"No."

"Do you claim, as did Mr. McCoy, that you and he were not lovers the day of the shooting?"

"We were not lovers," she maintained calmly.

"Really? Do you make a habit out of fondling male colleagues in public places - as witnesses will testify you did at _Flynn's_ the evening prior to the shooting - that are just….buddies?"

Stone's objection, as well as the judges admonishment, all but drowned out the sound of McCoy's satchel hitting the floor, which caused McCoy to realize he was half way out of his chair. Prescott waited for the judge to rule, her eyes never leaving Gorton. She was almost relieved to have the anticipation of this line of questioning over, finally for better or worse, she was able to deal with Neal Gorton head on.

"I warned you this morning, Mr. Gorton," the judge said heatedly. "The amount is one thousand dollars. The next contempt citation will carry time in lock up. Choose your next question carefully, Mr. Gorton. The objection is sustained."

"I'll rephrase. Is it true that you and Mr. McCoy were seen at

"Your honor," Stone said in a tone of voice that reflected his weariness of the topic. "defense counsel does not dispute the actions of Mr. McCoy and Mrs. Prescott on the evening of July 4th nor that they have since initiated an intimate personal relationship. Defense only disputes the claim that this relationship existed prior to the shooting."

"Fine," Gorton said not waiting for a ruling. "Mrs. Prescott when exactly did you and Mr. McCoy become lovers?"

"The evening of July the 15th 2007," she replied promptly.

Gorton's eyes widened.

"The night of the Manhattan Bar Association Gala - how can you be so sure?"

Prescott smiled at Gorton's slip up.

"Because it was a night worth remembering, Mr. Gorton."

"Mr. McCoy didn't seem to think so."

"Mr. McCoy's a gentlemen. Gentlemen don't keep score cards or dated notches on their bedposts, Mr. Gorton," she said with as much sweetness as she could get away with without looking like wiseass. "Besides, in order to begin a sexual relationship, any responsible woman has to plan. If you had bothered to check my medical records, you'd know my birth control prescription wasn't prescribed until after the 5th of July."

Gorton's face reddened as the jury reacted to the banter, knowing that the credibility of his lover's triangle theory for Samantha Weaver's death, had just received a damning blow.


	23. Ice Tea & Shambala

Shambala Green nearly choked on her drink when Brooke Prescott told her about her response to Neal Gorton's final question during her cross examination.

"Are you serious," she sputtered as she let out a soft burst of laughter. "All that mess and he never thought to…"

"Leave it to a man to make all kinds of assumptions about sex and not even think about the practicalities involved in executing the act."

"Admit it - you've been waiting for a chance to smack Neal Gorton down for weeks. You wanted to knock him on his backside in open court - in front of his client."

"Moi," Prescott asked wide eyed, doing her best 'Miss Piggy' imitation.

"You could have provided your medical records as part of defense evidence during discovery."

" Not my job. It's not up to me to do the other sides homework," she said stubbornly. "Besides, if I'd done that, I'd have been giving Gorton a heads up he sure as hell didn't deserve. Let him try to address it in his closing. It'll just remind the women on the jury of the obvious."

"Come on Brooke, admit it" Green pressed. "You loved every second of it."

Prescott grinned back at her friend as she motioned to the bartender to bring another round.

"Damn right I did," she declared brazenly. "It's bad enough the hell he's put me through, but what he's done to Jack, as well as playing on a grieving father's misplaced vengeance?Yeah, it felt good to give back a little. Blew his jealous lover theory of the shooting right out of the water."

"If this were a criminal case, Gorton would be coming to Ben hat in hand before closing arguments begin tomorrow morning," Green commented exchanging her early empty glass of ice tea for the one the bartender had set in front of her on the bar. Green took a sip as she looked around the bar that was quickly filling up with the happy hour crowd.

"You know the alcoholic version of that is pretty good," Prescott said as she drank her Long Island iced tea.

"Yeah, maybe for you. I have to pick up a nine year old whenever my husband finishes with Judge Northridge."

"I'm surprised she didn't just let Ben go. It was clear by the end of the session she'd had it with Gorton and wanted to chew on him. Speaking of chewing, when Ben gets here, may be you two would let me buy you dinner? It's the least I can do after borrowing your husband all summer."

"Gotta pass this time. We've got to get the little one. Besides, it's a school night. That means ninety minutes of homework to help with," Green replied.

"Too bad. I could use some dinner company. Maybe I better order some wings. I never did get lunch."

"Two questions. One: Isn't Jack joining us? Two: How did you end up missing lunch?"

"Jack got had to head over to city hall. God knows what's happening or how long he'll be. As for lunch? Two words : Clint Renard."

Green's eyes widened as Prescott summarized the lunch that never was and her ride back to the courthouse.

"So, what are you going to do? Talk about the perfect job for you. But the timing - have you had a chance to talk it over with Jack?"

Prescott gave Green a sides ways stare as the bartender took her order for buffalo wings.

"'Talk it over with Jack'," she repeated in a mocking tone. "Did you talk it over with Ben when you quit legal aide and opened your own practice?"

"You _know_ what I mean," Green shot back. "Anyone with eyes knows you 're in love with the man."

"That's beside the point."

"Which point is that?"

"Two marriages, Sham," Prescott said bluntly. "Two marriages, four assistants, and God knows how many others. McCoy's gonna bolt the at the sound of the word. Besides, this day's been so crazy, I haven't had a chance to tell him much of anything."

"He's not the one I see bolting," Green said as she swiped a piece of celery from the plate.

"Damn Sham - tea that's tea, now rabbit food? What happened to the girl that used go out with me for shooters and home fries at every ABA conference we attended?"

"She had a child and her metabolism betrayed her. Listen, I thought you were ready to rejoin the living, Brooke. If you want to go to Miami because you feel passionate about the assignment - go. But if you're going to let that worm put distance between you and Jack - if you're gonna use Clint Renard as an excuse to give into cold feet -"

"Trust me Sham - cold feet isn't an issue when you share a bed with Jack," Prescott said savoring one of the wings.

"Very cute - but don't play me - Brooke. I know enough women that - er - know Jack. I some knowledge of his 'skills'. If this was just sex, I'd say don't forget to send me a postcard from Miami. But even Ben commented on the way you two looked at each other Saturday. This isn't about causal sex for either of you. So, I'm going to ask you again: What are you going to do?"

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_Somebody's getting sued_, he thought throwing open the last of the living room windows_. It's only been what - eight weeks tops - since the super had a new compressor installed_. _How the hell can the AC be out again?_

McCoy stood a moment letting the warm breeze move across his face as he unbuttoned the white dress. It was one of those rare moments he would have gladly traded his scotch for an ice cold beer. After the scathing dressing down the mayor had given him regarding the media circus Prescott's trial had been become, McCoy reflected that maybe a keg would best meet his needs at that moment.

He ran his hand through his damp hair and turned to head for the bedroom. He called Prescott's name. The voicemail she had left him had asked that he join her at his place before dinner. He was surprised that she hadn't arrived yet.

His eyes fell on the note pad propped up by the answer phone on the kitchen counter.

One of the reasons Jack McCoy had resisted moving from the brownstone, he had resided in since his first marriage ended, was the modest rent he paid due to rent control. Another was the rooftop patio with its spectacular view of the city.

Several of the tenants were frustrated horticulturalists, whose only outlet for their talents,was the roof top garden. While Chicago born McCoy didn't share their passion, he did benefit from it. The garden was a paradise of color and smell. A happy contrast to the grittiness of the city.

The end of summer was a busy time for most of his neighbors. Many had children returning to school. The others were professionals, who viewed August as the last chance to use vacation time prior to the winter holidays.

McCoy looked around the patio and followed the sound of music to the other side of the garden.

McCoy smiled at Prescott's handiwork as he handed her the note, giving her a peak on the cheek. The redwood table nearest the Jacuzzi was set for two. Two glasses of chardonnay sat on the table. The bottle was chilling in a ice bucket beside the portable cd player, beside the in-ground Jacuzzi tub. The smell of meat cooking on the grill focused McCoy's attention on the barbeque. Containers, labeled with name of the deli down the block, were laid out on the table as well.

"I received your summons, counselor. It looks like you've been busy."

"When I got to your place I figured it might be a good idea to eat outside. Give the apartment a chance to cool off," Prescott said as she handed McCoy a glass. "Besides, you deserve a reward for not punching out Neal Gorton today."

"I deserve a _medal_ for not punching out Neal Gorton today."

"Agreed," she said as both chuckled. She picked up the tongs from the table and handed them to McCoy. "Care to do the honors?"

"My pleasure," he said as he moved towards the grill.

"How did your meeting with the mayor go?"

"Let's just say it won't pain either one of us if the party doesn't support me when this term is up."

"You know he's just blowing smoke - right? Closing arguments start tomorrow. Once the jury makes it's decision things will blow over. When this months conviction rates come out, the mayor will be singing your praises to the press."

McCoy raised his eyebrows skeptically as they sat. He turned briefly towards the downtown skyline, the lights beginning to shine, as twilight turned to evening.

"I saw both Arthur and Adam go through the same sort of thing - different issues - but the same reasoning. I told the mayor I'll worry about next term, next term. Until then, I plan to serve the people of New York county to the best of my abilities - despite the Neal Gorton's of the world. Humm. Brooke, this is really good. The marinade on this…it tastes like you had the meat preparing all day. It's wonderful."

As they ate the small talk continued along those lines - pleasant and meaningless - until the meal was finished and McCoy divided the last of the wine between the two glasses. The selection of cd's had turned to Dave Ellis - one of McCoy's favorite saxophonist's - backed up by piano and bass. The music was like the night - sultry and steamy - inviting dance.

As he held her, McCoy's mind drifted to the events of the day. Their testimony, his meetings in between the time he spent in court. The questions he had about her lunch date with Clint Renard tugged at him.

McCoy didn't really think Prescott had any interest in the arrogant EADA - but the thought of her having lunch with the man - made him uneasy. That uneasiness led to other questions such as where the relationship was heading, where he wanted it to go, and how much he really had a right to expect from her. While neither of them were youthful innocents, McCoy had been aware from the start of the age gap between them.

As a man who had been claimed by AARP as one of their own, seeing a woman on the opposite side of fifty, was akin to a double edged sword. McCoy found the relationship exciting and pleasurable. The more time Prescott spent with him, the more he felt a sense of disappointment when that time came to an end. At the same time he realized the restrictions age could place on a relationship. This realization nagged at him when he thought about what the future might hold if their relationship continued to grow.

"Hey. Jack, where did you go? I thought I lost you."

McCoy looked down at Prescott who was studying his face, her eyes looking up at him with amusement.

"Just the opposite. I was thinking about you and what kind of reward _you _deserve for going to so much trouble."

"Oh, I can think of a few things I'd enjoy having tonight," she said as she bent his head forward.

As they kissed Prescott pressed against him, so involved in the moment, that she stumbled forward slightly as McCoy came up for air.

"Sorry," she said startled. "One too many Long Island ice teas on an empty stomach."

"You mean at _Clancy'_s after the trial?"

"Yeah. Maybe I should have followed Shambala's lead and stuck with actual tea."

"You didn't make your lunch date," McCoy asked smiling inside at the opening she had inadvertently given him.

Prescott rested her hands on his chest, her eyes searching his face before answering.

"Clint Renard summoned me to_ Traven on the Green_."

"You, Cohen, and now Renard," McCoy asked poker faced. "Does your office have anyone that actually stays in Suffolk county to try cases?"

"Cute. Clint was on his way to Albany."

"So you went to Traven on the Green and didn't eat? Kind of a wasted visit, considering they have the best gazpacho in the city."

Prescott sighed.

"I didn't have much of an appetite after our conversation."

"If he used his position to get you out there for no reason other than to hit on you, maybe you should consider filing a compliant-"

Prescott nodded.

"Sexual harassment? Trust me - he knows better. No, we talked shop. Have you thought about who you're sending to Miami next month?"

"Next month? For the anti drug-"McCoy stopped suddenly realizing the reason for her question. "Congratulations. How do you feel about going to Miami for six months?"

"I don't know, Jack," she said frankly. " I just don't know. Six months ago, if I'd been asked to do it, I'd have said 'yes' before Clint had a chance to change his mind. Now-"

"Should I take that to mean you haven't said 'yes'?"

"He gave me until the end of the week to get back to him," she said as she moved towards the Jacuzzi. Slipping off her shoes, she sat along the edge and slid her feet into the water.

McCoy joined her. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"The water's usually not so cool. I hope it doesn't mean the tub's on the fritz along with the air conditioning."

Prescott shook her head.

"I turned the thermostat down. I saw Mrs. Haggerty pruning her roses when I got up here. Told her about your AC. She suggested you might enjoy the tub more if I dropped it down a few degrees - she also said if you locked the door when you arrived, we wouldn't be disturbed. Your neighbor is a bit of a romantic."

McCoy grinned.

"Mrs. Haggerty watches too much _Desperate Housewives_."

"I knew you'd chicken out," she said smirking as she pointed to the bath suit and trucks that lay beside the cd player. "Being a prosecutor, I'm used to preparing a variety of options."

"Yeah - I found that out today," he said the amusement. "I guess I'm as bad as Gorton. That night at _Flynn's_ - when you put me off- I took your explanation at face value. I didn't even consider that your might have felt the need to make 'preparations'."

"That's because you're a man."

"Isn't _that_ an sterotypical statement," he snorted. "You know there are _other _ways-"

"True. But like I said before, hearing 'no' once in awhile does you good. A man like you needs to be humbled every so often."

McCoy quietly laughed as he suddenly pulled her to him while he slipped in to the tub. Prescott gasped in surprise, as his kiss stifled her laughter.

As his hands reached under the sleeveless shell she wore, he whispered, "Am I going to be humbled tonight?"

Prescott slipped his shirt off and laid it on the cement as she felt her bra fall away from her breasts. She let him slip the garment off of her before she put her arms around his neck.

"Not unless you plan on leaving the door unlocked," she said seductively as she drew him to her.


	24. Late in the Evening

By the time they returned to McCoy's apartment the evening breeze had turned cool. While McCoy closed the majority of windows in the living room, Prescott took the opportunity to check her voice mail. McCoy joined her on the sofa, noting her frown, as she closed the phone and reached for her purse.

"Bad news?"

"I'm not sure," she said thoughtfully. "Ben says Neal Gorton asked him to set up a meeting before court tomorrow morning."

"Brooke, that sounds like good news. The only reason Gorton would have for meeting is to try to negotiate some sort of deal. What the hell are you doing with that?"

Prescott set the tiny handgun in front of McCoy who stared at her in disbelief.

"How long have you been carrying that around?"

"Since my last session with Dr. Meadows. The police still have the Browning, so I've been carrying the Derringer in my purse."

"You couldn't have gotten that into the courthouse?"

Prescott shook her head.

"Of course not. I've had to surrender it and then pick it up from the marshal after court. But at least in the courthouse there is armed security. No matter how I feel about what happened to Samantha Weaver, the fact remains Valdimir Volenski still has lieutenants walking around, free to retaliate any time he sends the order."

"I understand that, Brooke. But why are you showing me… did something happen? Have you been threatened," he asked tone becoming increasingly more alarmed.

Prescott took a deep breath, letting it out slowly before she responded.

"I saw someone else at lunch today, besides Clint."

McCoy listened intently as Prescott repeated her conversation with Peter Weaver, emphasizing Weaver's cryptic comment : _No matter what happens. One way or another things will be resolved very soon.._

"Brooke, you don't seriously belief Weaver means to-"

"I don't know what Mr. Weaver means to do, Jack," she said forcefully. "My take on him is that he's a decent man, whose not thinking clearly, due to the grief he feels from losing his daughter. I really didn't think much about the remark until I was listening to Ben's message. Mr. Weaver's made his feelings plain from the start. This case was never about collecting damages."

"You think he'd really be desperate enough to come after you physically?"

Prescott picked up the gun and pressed it into McCoy's hands.

"He won't come after me, Jack. If he goes after anyone, it will be you."

McCoy shook his head in amazement as Prescott filled McCoy in on the information she'd forced Ben Stone to keep from him.

"The man is delusional," he said flatly as he carefully set the gun on the coffee table.

"Which is exactly why I want you to take the gun. Jack, be reasonable. I don't know what Mr. Weaver has in mind for tomorrow - it's got to be obvious to him the jury wasn't too impressed with Gorton today. I'm probably way off base, but would it kill you to humor me?"

Both of them snickered at Prescott's poor choice of words.

"I didn't arm myself when I was threatened before, I'm not going to do it now."

"Jack-"

"No, Brooke. There's nothing to discuss. I understand your decision to carry a weapon and I respect it. But it's not a choice I'm comfortable with."

Prescott stood up suddenly turning away from him.

"Damn it Jack, why do you have to fight me on this? I don't feel good about… anything could happen..."

McCoy stood as well, turning her to him, distressed by the tears that were making their way down her cheeks.

"Brooke, come on," he said softly as he took her in his arms. "you're obsessing. Everything is going to be fine. I won't even be near the courthouse tomorrow when -"

Prescott looked up at him, her face filled with anxiety.

"I can't go through it again," she said flatly as she tried to pull away from him.

McCoy was certain of her meaning, but part of him was ready to confront the feelings they had both carefully avoided discussing for weeks.

"Can't go through what again," he asked refusing to release her.

"Damn you for making me... damn your stubborn Irish hide … I can't go through losing another man I love. Not like this… not to another bullet," she sobbed.

"I love you, too," he said as he held her tightly. "I'm going to be fine, I promise. Nothing's going to happen to me."


	25. Exploring Options

Without fan fare, Neal Gorton slid the folder across the table to Ben Stone.

"What is this," Prescott asked dispassionately, "an eleventh hour addition to your witness list?"

"My client as directed me to move for an adjournment. he wants to terminate the suit against you," Gorton said lightly.

Prescott moved closer to Stone, skimming the document over his shoulder.

"With leave to re file at a later date, no doubt?"

Gorton let out an amused chuckle.

"As if Judge Northridge would even consider it. No, Mrs. Prescott. I'd like to keep what little hide I have left, after yesterday's meeting in chambers, with the good judge."

Prescott looked at Stone for confirmation. He nodded looking as bewildered as Prescott felt.

"It all looks very straight forward," Stone said passing the file to Prescott. "All the money your client spent, all the time…do you mind my asking what made your client reconsider? Surely you advised him that, in a civil case it would be unlikely he'd come away without some compensation, given the jury's sympathy for a grieving father?"

Gorton sat back in his chair, more relaxed than Stone could remember seeing him since the start of the trial.

"It would not be in my clients best interests to discuss that with defense counsel, Mr. Stone. Danger of counter-suits being filed , possible sanctions from my biggest fan - Judge Northridge - for perusing what the court might see as a frivolous lawsuit. I understand you had occasion to speak with my client privately, Mrs. Prescott?"

"Yes, we shared a cab back from lunch yesterday," she said for Stone's benefit. "I'm sure your client will tell you, I was very clear about the improp-"

Gorton waved a dismissive hand.

"I wasn't implying anything improper went on. I just meant, since you spoke to Peter yourself, I'm sure you understand this was never about destroying your life - financially or otherwise," he said with a wink."By the way - touché."

"Excuse me?"

"Yesterday - the manner in which you responded to my cross - couldn't have done better myself."

Both Stone and Prescott stared at Gorton, who for the time, seemed almost human.

"My pleasure."

Gorton laughed again good naturedly.

"I'm sure it was, Mrs. Prescott, I'm sure it was."

"I'm surprised your client didn't join us for this meeting. May I ask where Mr. Weaver is?"

"Well, Mr. Stone, Peter Weaver is an odd one,"Gorton confided. "He's well aware of his daughter short comings, yet he'll fight with a vengeance to protect her good name. He did what he set out to do. He knows he's gotten as much mileage out of this lawsuit as he could. He's - to us his own words - given 'Jack McCoy as big a taste of his own medicine as the law would allow'. I image he's on his way to JFK by now."

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"McCoy!"

Jack McCoy had just removed his helmet when Peter Weaver strode up to him. Weaver gave the BMW the once over, returning his stern scowl to the jean clad district attorney.

"Mighty bold of you riding around without some sort of security. Especially given the number of enemies a bastard like you must have."

"Mr. Weaver,"McCoy said calmly glanced passed the fragile man, hoping to gain the attention of a security guard. "You shouldn't be here, for a number of reasons."

"What are you going to do McCoy - have me arrested for exercising my right to free speech? So be it. But before you do, I have something to say to you and by God, I'm going to say it."

McCoy leaned against the bike and waited for Weaver to make his next move.

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"Where's Jack?"

Connie Rubirosa was in McCoy's office when she heard the sound of Brooke Prescott's voice behind her.

"I don't know, Brooke. His assistant just stepped out. Let me check his calendar," she said coming around to the other side of the desk. "Is everything alright? You sound -"

"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about," Prescott said as she made an effort to catch her breath. "I just came from the courthouse. The lawsuit's been dropped."

"Well, that's great news. You must be so relieved."

Prescott nodded wanting to believe Neal Gorton was right: That Peter Weaver was out of New York and nowhere near Jack McCoy.

"I'll be more relived when I see Jack. Anything on his calendar for this morning?"

"He should be here," Rubirosa replied, a puzzled expression on her face. "He has an interview scheduled for the senior EADA slot in a half an hour. Jack wanted to review the appilcant's file before the interview-"

"Aren't you supposed to be in court," McCoy asked as he entered the room.

"Trials over. Peter Weaver terminated the suit."

McCoy raised his eyebrows as he nodded.

"I don't know why I'm surprised - it makes sense - given his objectives. Connie, did you need me?"

"I just came in to give you the file on Geleto. You said you wanted to personally handle the closing."

McCoy picked the file up off of the deskas he laid his satchel down.

"Gorton's firm is representing the defendant in that one, right?"

"Right."

McCoy sighed as he handed the file to Rubirosa.

"No reason to give Neal Gorton an excuse to scream conflict of interest - give it to Carver. Tell him I'll be down this afternoon to review it with him."

As Rubirosa closed the door, McCoy went to the clothing rack. Out of habit, he opened the bathroom door to provide a screen as he exchanged his street clothes for the dark grey suit on the rack.

"I'll bet you pulled that changing routine on your ADA's for years," Prescott said with amusement as she sat on the edge of his desk. "Any of them ever call you on it?"

McCoy grinned sheepishly as he grabbed a tie.

"Just the one I married. You looked upset when I came in - was something else on your mind besides the lawsuit?"

"Well, now I feel stupid," she admitted as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "When Mr. Weaver didn't accompany Neal Gorton to the meeting, I thought he might be here."

McCoy closed the door,coming back to his desk, as he knotted his tie.

"Don't feel stupid. He met me in the parking garage - don't ask me how he got in there. He felt the need to tell me what he thought of a man my age seducing his daughter, especially after sending her to prison."

"Seducing her," Prescott said with amazement. "Did you set the man straight?"

McCoy shook his head as he sat back in his chair.

"Didn't see what purpose it would serve. The man has a point."

"Which is," Prescott asked startled by his remark.

"I have no business at my age sleeping with beautiful younger women," he said quietly as he reached for her hand. "Much less falling in love with one."

"Listen, Jack. About last night," she began awkwardly. "We were both very emotional. Don't think that I would hold you to anything that was said in the heat of the moment."

"I don't say things I don't mean," he said slyly smiling as he held her gaze a moment before changing the subject. "The man just lost his only child. Peter Weaver knows what his daughter was - rubbing his nose in it isn't going chance anything."

"True," she responded as she walked to the window."Is that all he said?"

"Apparently when my term ends, I can count on Weaver using the money he inherited from his daughter to support my opponent," McCoy said with a smirk. "As if there's a chance in hell I'll be running."

"Hey, you don't know how you'll feel by then. Don't narrow your options yet."

"Right now, I'm not the one with a choice to make - options to weigh. Today's Thursday," he said gently as he walked over to her and took her in his arms. "Any idea what you're going to tell Renard?"

Prescott waited to respond. She was still processing McCoy 's words. _I don't say things I don't mean._

"So," she said looking into his eyes. "What exactly are my options?"

"Just like a prosecutor - answering a question with a question," he joked. "Seriously, I don't want you to feel you have to give up something you want to make me happy."

"So, you'd be happy if I turned the assignment down?"

McCoy hesitated. He didn't want to make the decision for her, but he also didn't want to make the mistake he'd made in other relationships. He didn't want to inadvertently push her away by appearing indifferent.

"The more time I spend with you, the happier I am. But that doesn't mean you should base your decision on that."

"It is hard enough making a relationship work these days - especially when the people involved live in different cities. Being in different states? It would stack the deck even more against us."

McCoy nodded.

"I'm not saying you're wrong. I certainly would like to discuss it with you more tonight, when I'm not pressed for time. In the meantime, maybe you should take a look at this," he said as he returned to the desk. "Keep in mind whether you are in New York or Florida, we wouldn't be seeing each other during the week, anyway. At least not often."

McCoy opened his satchel, retrieving a folder and handing it to Prescott.

"These are flight schedules from JFK to Miami. When did you …?"

"I pulled those off the internet last night after you went to sleep. You're not the only prosecutor that prepares a variety of options" he said pleased with himself. "I believe the tasks force starts meeting September the 3rd? I took the liberty of reserving a seat on the 6:00 p.m. flight out of JFK for September 7th."


End file.
